V 


•r  /N 


^      /^. 


PLAYS:    PLEASANT 
AND   UNPLEASANT 


PLAYS:  PLEASANT  AND  UN- 
PLEASANT •  BY  BERNARD 
SHAW  •  THE  SECOND  VOL- 
UME, CONTAINING  THE 
FOUR   PLEASANT   PLAYS 


BRENTANO'S   •    NEW  YORK 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright.  1898,  h/  George  Bernard  Shaw 
Copyright,  1898,  hy  Herbert  8.  Stone  ^  Co. 


Copyright^  1905,  hy  Brentano's 


CONTENTS 


ifHeater  Arts 

Libra  r>' 

PR. 


PAGE 
V 


XXI 


Preface  .         .  .         ,         .         . 

Introduction       .         <  ... 

Arms  and  the  Man    ..<..,  3 

Candida       ........  83 

The  ]VLa.n  of  Destiny          .         c         ,         .         c  163 

You  Never  Can  Tell          .....  219 


PREFACE 

Readers  of  the  discourse  with  which  the  preceding 
yolume  is  prefaced  will  remember  that  I  turned  my  hand 
to  playwriting  when  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  "  the 
New  Drama/'  and  the  actual  establishment  of  a  "  New 
Theatre  "  (the  Independent),  threatened  to  end  in  the 
humiliating  discovery  that  "  the  New  Drama/'  in  Eng- 
land at  least,  was  a  figment  of  the  revolutionary  imagina- 
tion. This  was  not  to  be  endured.  I  had  rashly  taken 
up  the  case;  and  rather  than  let  it  collapse,  I  manu- 
factured the  evidence. 

Man  is  a  creature  of  habit.  You  cannot  write  three 
plays  and  then  stop.  Besides,  the  "  New  "  movement  did 
not  stop.  In  1894,  some  public  spirited  person,  then  as 
now  unknown  to  me,  declared  that  the  London  theatres 
were  intolerable,  and  financed  a  season  of  plays  of  the 
"  new  "  order  at  the  Avenue  Theatre.  There  were,  as 
available  new  dramatists,  myself,  discovered  by  the  In- 
dependent Theatre  (at  my  own  suggestion)  ;  and  Mr. 
John  Todhunter,  who  had  indeed  been  discovered  before, 
but  whose  Black  Cat  had  been  one  of  the  Independent's 
successes.  Mr.  Todhunter  supplied  A  Comedy  of  Sighs. 
I,  having  nothing  but  "  unpleasant "  plays  in  my  desk, 
hastily  completed  a  first  attempt  at  a  pleasant  one,  and 
called  it  Arms  and  the  Man.  It  passed  for  a  success: 
that  is,  the  first  night  was  as  brilliant  as  could  be  de- 
sired; and  it  ran  from  the  21st  April  to  the  7th  July. 
To  witness  it  the  public  paid  precisely  ^1777:5:6,  an 
average  of  £23:2:5  per  representation  (including  nine 
matinees),  the  average  cost  of  each  representation  being 


vi         Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant 

about  <£80.  A  publisher  receiving  ,£1700  for  a  book 
would  have  made  a  satisfactory  profit  on  it:  the  loss 
to  the  Avenue  management  veas  not  far  from  <£5000. 
This,  however,  need  not  altogether  discourage  specula- 
tors in  the  "  new "  drama.  If  the  people  who  were 
willing  to  pay  j£l700  to  see  the  play  had  all  come  within 
a  fortnight  instead  of  straggling  in  during  twelve  weeks 
— and  such  people  can  easily  be  trained  to  understand 
this  necessity — the  result  would  have  been  financially 
satisfactory  to  the  management  and  at  least  flattering  to 
the  author.  In  America,  where  the  play,  after  a  fort- 
night in  New  York,  took  its  place  simply  as  an  item 
in  the  repertory  of  Mr.  Richard  Mansfield,  it  has  kept 
alive  to  this  day.  What  the  feelings  of  the  unknown 
benefactor  of  the  drama  were  on  realizing  that  the  net 
cost  of  running  an  "  artistically  successful  "  theatre  on 
the  ordinary  London  system  was  from  <£400  to  £500  a 
week,  I  do  not  know.  As  for  me,  I  opened  a  very  modest 
banking  account,  and  became  comparatively  Conserva- 
tive in  my  political  opinions. 

In  the  autumn  of  1894  I  spent  a  few  weeks  in  Flor- 
ence, where  I  occupied  myself  with  the  religious  art  of 
the  Middle  Ages  and  its  destruction  by  the  Renasence. 
From  a  former  visit  to  Italy  on  the  same  business  I  had 
hurried  back  to  Birmingham  to  discharge  my  duties  as 
musical  critic  at  the  Festival  there.  On  that  occasion 
there  was  a  very  remarkable  collection  of  the  works  of 
our  "  pre-Raphaelite  "  painters  at  the  public  gallery.  I 
looked  at  these,  and  then  went  into  the  Birmingham 
churclies  to  see  the  windows  of  AVilliam  Morris  and 
Burne-Jones.  On  the  whole,  Birmingham  was  more 
hopeful  than  the  Italian  cities ;  for  the  art  it  had  to  shew 
me  was  the  work  of  living  men,  whereas  modern  Italy 
had,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  no  more  connection  with  Giotto 
than  Port  Said  has  with  Ptolemy.  Now  I  am  no  believer 
in  the  worth  of  any  "  taste  "  for  art  that  cannot  pro- 
duce what  it  professes  to  love.     When  my  subsequent 


Preface  vii 

visit  to  Italy  found  me  practising  the  dramatist's  craft, 
the  time  was  ripe  for  the  birth  of  a  pre-Raphaelite  play ; 
for  religion  was  alive  again,  coming  back  upon  men — 
even  clergymen — with  such  power  that  not  the  Church 
of  England  itself  could  keep  it  out.  Here  my  activity 
as  a  Socialist  had  placed  me  on  sure  and  familiar  ground. 
To  me  the  members  of  the  Guild  of  St.  Matthew  were 
no  more  "  High  Church  clergymen,"  Dr.  Clifford  no 
more  "  an  eminent  Nonconformist  divine,"  than  I  was  to 
them  "  an  infidel."  There  is  only  one  religion,  though 
there  are  a  hundred  versions  of  it.  We  all  had  the  same 
thing  to  say;  and  though  some  of  us  cleared  our  throats 
to  say  it  by  singing  Secularist  poems  or  republican 
hymns,  we  sang  them  to  the  music  of  "  Onward,  Chris- 
tian Soldiers  "  or  Haydn's  "  God  Preserve  the  Emperor." 
But  unity,  however  desirable  in  political  agitations,  is 
fatal  to  drama,  since  every  drama  must  be  the  artistic 
presentation  of  a  conflict.  The  end  may  be  reconcilia- 
tion or  destruction,  or,  as  in  life  itself,  there  may  be  no 
end;  but  the  conflict  is  indispensable:  no  conflict,  no 
drama.  Now  it  is  easy  enough  to  dramatize  the  prosaic 
conflict  of  Christian  Socialism  with  vulgar  Unsocialism: 
for  instance,  in  Widower's  Houses  the  clergyman,  who 
never  appears  on  the  stage  at  all,  is  the  only  real  op- 
ponent of  the  slum  landlord.  But  the  obvious  conflicts 
of  unmistakeable  good  with  unmistakeable  evil  can  only 
supply  the  crude  drama  of  villain  and  hero,  in  which 
some  absolute  point  of  view  is  taken,  and  the  dissentients 
are  treated  by  the  dramatist  as  enemies  to  be  deliber- 
ately and  piously  vilified.  In  such  cheap  wares  I  do 
not  deal.  Even  in  the  propagandist  dramas  of  the  previ- 
ous volume  I  have  allowed  every  person  his  or  her  own 
point  of  view,  and  have,  I  hope,  to  the  full  extent  of  my 
understanding  of  him,  been  as  sympathetic  with  Sir 
George  Crofts  as  with  any  of  the  more  genial  and  popular 
characters  in  the  present  volume.  To  distil  the  quin- 
tessential   drama    from    pre-Raphaelitism,    medieval    or 


viii       Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant 

modern,  it  must  be  shewn  in  conflict  with  the  first 
broken,  nervous,  stumbling  attempts  to  formulate  its  own 
revolt  against  itself  as  it  develops  into  something  higher. 
A  coherent  explanation  of  any  such  revolt,  addressed  in- 
telligibly and  prosaically  to  the  intellect,  can  only  come 
when  the  work  is  done,  and  indeed  done  with:  that  is  to 
say,  when  the  development,  accomplished,  admitted,  and 
assimilated,  is  only  a  story  of  yesterday.  But  long 
before  any  such  understanding  is  reached,  the  eyes  of 
men  begin  to  turn  towards  the  distant  light  of  the  new 
age.  Discernible  at  first  only  by  the  eyes  of  the  man 
of  genius,  it  must  be  concentrated  by  him  on  the 
speculum  of  a  work  of  art,  and  flashed  back  from 
that  into  the  eyes  of  the  common  man.  Nay,  the  artist 
himself  has  no  other  way  of  making  himself  conscious 
of  the  ray:  it  is  by  a  blind  instinct  that  he  keeps  on 
building  up  his  masterpieces  until  their  pinnacles  catch 
the  glint  of  the  unrisen  sun.  Ask  him  to  explain  him- 
self prosaically,  and  you  find  that  he  "  writes  like  an 
angel  and  talks  like  poor  Poll,"  and  is  himself  the 
first  to  make  that  epigram  at  his  own  expense.  Mr. 
Ruskin  has  told  us  clearly  enough  what  is  in  the  pic- 
tures of  Carpaccio  and  Bellini:  let  him  explain,  if 
he  can,  where  we  shall  be  when  the  sun  that  is  caught 
by  the  summits  of  the  work  of  his  favorite  Tintoretto, 
of  his  aversion  Rembrandt,  of  Mozart,  of  Beethoven 
and  Wagner,  of  Blake  and  of  Shelley,  shall  have 
reached  the  valleys.  Let  Ibsen  explain,  if  he  can,  why 
the  building  of  churches  and  happy  homes  is  not  the 
ultimate  destiny  of  Man,  and  why,  at  the  bidding  of  the 
younger  generations,  he  must  mount  beyond  it  to  heights 
that  now  seem  unspeakably  giddy  and  dreadful  to  him, 
and  from  which  the  first  climbers  must  fall  and  dash 
themselves  to  pieces.  He  cannot  explain  it:  he  can 
only  shew  it  to  you  as  a  vision  in  the  magic  glass  of 
his  art  work;  so  that  you  may  catch  his  presentiment 
and  make  what  you  can  of  it.     And  this  is  the  function 


Preface  ix 

that  raises  dramatic  art  above  imposture  and  pleasure 
hunting,  and  enables  the  dramatist  to  be  something  more 
than  a  skilled  liar  and  pandar. 

Here,  then,  was  the  higher,  but  vaguer,  timider  vision, 
and  the  incoherent,  mischievous,  and  even  ridiculous,  un- 
practicalness,  which  offered  me  a  dramatic  antagonist 
for  the  clear,  bold,  sure,  sensible,  benevolent,  salutarily 
shortsighted  Christian  Socialist  idealism.  I  availed  my- 
self of  it  in  my  drama  Candida,  the  "  drunken  scene  " 
in  which  has  been  much  appreciated,  I  am  told,  in 
Aberdeen.  I  purposely  contrived  the  play  in  such  a 
way  as  to  make  the  expenses  of  representation  insig- 
nificant; so  that,  without  pretending  that  I  could  appeal 
to  a  very  wide  circle  of  playgoers,  I  could  reasonably 
sound  a  few  of  our  more  enlightened  managers  as  to  an 
experiment  with  half  a  dozen  afternoon  performances. 
They  admired  the  play  so  generously  that  I  tliink  that 
if  any  of  them  had  been  young  enough  to  play  the 
poet,  my  proposal  might  have  been  acceded  to,  in  spite 
of  many  incidental  difficulties.  Nay,  if  only  I  had  made 
the  poet  a  cripple,  or  at  least  blind,  so  as  to  combine 
an  easier  disguise  with  a  larger  claim  for  sympathy, 
something  might  have  been  done.  Mr.  Richard  Mans- 
field, who  had  won  distinction  for  my  Arms  and  the 
Man  in  America  by  his  impersonation  of  Captain 
Bluntschli,  went  so  far  as  to  put  the  play  actually  into 
rehearsal  before  he  would  confess  himself  beaten  by  the 
physical  difficulties  of  the  part.  But  they  did  beat  him; 
and  Candida  did  not  see  the  footlights  until  last  year, 
when  my  old  ally  the  Independent  Theatre,  making  a 
propagandist  tour  through  the  provinces  with  A  Doll's 
House,  added  Candida  to  its  repertory,  to  the  great 
astonishment  of  its  audiences. 

In  an  idle  moment  in  1895  I  began  the  little  scene 
called  The  Man  of  Destiny,  Avhich  is  hardly  more  than 
a  bravura  piece  to  display  the  virtuosity  of  the  two 
principal  performers.     Its  stage  rights  were  secured  by 


X  Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant 

a  hasty  performance  at  Croydon  last  year,  when,  affront- 
ing the  stupefied  inhabitants  of  that  suburb  in  the  guise 
of  a  blood-and-thunder  historical  drama,  in  which  Na- 
poleon's suggestion  that  the  innkeeper  should  kill  some- 
body to  provide  him  with  red  ink  was  received  as  a 
serious  trait  of  the  Corsican  ogre,  it  drove  my  critical 
colleagues  to  the  verge  of  downright  mendacity — in  fact, 
one  or  two  went  over  it — to  conceal  the  worst  from  the 
public,  and  spare  the  author's  feelings. 

In  the  meantime  I  had  devoted  the  spare  moments 
of  1896  to  the  composition  of  two  more  plays,  only 
the  first  of  which  appears  in  this  volume.  You  Never 
Can  Tell  was  an  attempt  to  comply  with  many  requests 
for  a  play  in  which  the  much  paragraphed  "  brilliancy  " 
of  Arms  and  the  Man  should  be  tempered  by  some  con- 
sideration for  the  requirements  of  managers  in  search 
of  fashionable  comedies  for  West  End  theatres.  I  had 
no  difficulty  in  complying,  as  I  have  always  cast  my 
plays  in  the  ordinary  practical  comedy  form  in  use  at 
all  the  theatres ;  and  far  from  taking  an  unsympathetic 
view  of  the  popular  demand  for  fun,  for  fashionable 
dresses,  for  a  pretty  scene  or  two,  a  little  music,  and 
even  for  a  great  ordering  of  drinks  by  people  with  an 
expensive  air  from  an  if-possible-comic  waiter,  I  was 
more  than  willing  to  shew  that  the  drama  can  humanize 
these  things  as  easily  as  they,  in  undramatic  hands,  can 
dehumanize  the  drama.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  give 
the  theatre  what  its  wants,  and  quite  another  for  the 
theatre  to  do  what  it  wants.  The  demands  of  the  fash- 
ionable theatre  are  founded  on  an  idealization  of  its 
own  resources ;  and  the  test  of  rehearsal  proved  that  in 
making  my  play  acceptable  I  had  made  it,  for  the  mo- 
ment at  least,  impracticable.  And  so  I  reached  the 
point  at  which,  as  narrated  in  the  preface  to  the  first 
volume,  I  resolved  to  avail  myself  of  my  literary  ex- 
pertness  to  put  my  plays  before  the  public  in  my  own 
way. 


Preface  xi 

It  will  be  noticed  that  I  have  not  been  driven  to  this 
expedient  by  any  hostility  on  the  part  of  our  managers. 
I  will  not  pretend  that  the  modern  actor-manager's  rare 
combination  of  talent  as  an  actor  with  capacity  as  a 
man  of  business  can  in  the  nature  of  things  be  often 
associated  with  exceptional  critical  insight.  As  a  rule, 
by  the  time  a  manager  has  experience  enough  given  him 
to  be  as  safe  a  judge  of  plays  as  a  Bond  Street  dealer 
is  of  pictures,  he  begins  to  be  thrown  out  in  his  cal- 
culations by  the  slow  but  constant  change  of  public  taste, 
and  by  his  own  growing  Conservatism.  But  his  need 
for  new  plays  is  so  great,  and  the  handful  of  accredited 
authors  so  little  able  to  keep  pace  with  their  commis- 
sions, that  he  is  always  apt  to  overrate  rather  than  to 
underrate  his  discoveries  in  the  way  of  new  pieces  by 
new  authors.  An  original  work  by  a  man  of  genius  like 
Ibsen  may,  of  course,  baflSe  him  as  it  baffles  many  pro- 
fessed critics;  but  in  the  beaten  path  of  drama  no  un- 
acted works  of  merit,  suitable  to  his  purposes,  have  been 
discovered;  whereas  the  production,  at  great  expense,  of 
very  faulty  plays  written  by  novices  (not  "  backers  ") 
is  by  no  means  an  unknown  event.  Indeed,  to  anyone 
who  can  estimate,  even  vaguely,  the  complicated  trouble, 
the  risk  of  heavy  loss,  and  the  initial  expense  and 
thought  involved  by  the  production  of  a  play,  the  ease 
with  which  dramatic  authors,  known  and  unknown,  get 
their  works  performed  must  needs  seem  a  wonder. 

Only,  authors  must  not  expect  managers  to  invest 
many  thousands  of  pounds  in  plays,  however  fine  (or  the 
reverse),  which  will  clearly  not  attract  perfectly  com- 
monplace people.  Playwriting  and  theatrical  manage- 
ment, on  the  present  commercial  basis,  are  businesses  like 
other  businesses,  depending  on  the  patronage  of  great 
numbers  of  very  ordinary  customers.  If  the  managers 
and  authors  study  the  wants  of  those  customers  they 
will  succeed:  if  not,  they  will  fail.  A  public-spirited 
manager,  or  author  with  a  keen  artistic  conscience,  may 


xii       Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant 

choose  to  pursue  his  business  with  the  minimum  of  profit 
and  the  maximum  of  social  usefulness  by  keeping  as 
close  as  he  can  to  the  highest  marketable  limit  of  quality, 
and  constantly  feeling  for  an  extension  of  that  limit 
through  the  advance  of  popular  culture.  An  unscrupu- 
lous manager  or  author  may  aim  simply  at  the  maximum 
of  profit  with  the  minimum  of  risk.  These  are  the  ex- 
treme limits  of  our  system,  represented  in  practice  by 
our  first  rate  managements  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
syndicates  which  exploit  pornographic  musical  farces  at 
the  other.  Between  them  there  is  plenty  of  room  for 
most  talents  to  breathe  freely:  at  all  events  there  is  a 
career,  no  harder  of  access  than  any  cognate  career,  for 
all  qualified  playwrights  who  bring  the  manager  what 
his  customers  want  and  understand,  or  even  enough  of 
it  to  induce  them  to  swallow  at  the  same  time  a  great 
deal  of  what  they  neither  want  nor  understand  (the 
public  is  touchingly  humble  in   such  matters). 

For  all  that,  the  commercial  limits  are  too  narrow  for 
our  social  welfare.  The  theatre  is  growing  in  importance 
as  a  social  organ.  Bad  theatres  are  as  mischievous  as 
bad  schools  or  bad  churches ;  for  modern  civilization  is 
rapidly  multiplying  the  numbers  to  whom  the  theatre  is 
both  school  and  church.  Public  and  private  life  become 
daily  more  theatrical:  the  modern  Emperor  is  "  the  lead- 
ing man"  on  the  stage  of  his  country;  all  great  news- 
papers are  now  edited  dramatically;  the  records  of  our 
law  courts  show  that  the  spread  of  dramatic  conscious- 
ness is  affecting  personal  conduct  to  an  unprecedented 
extent,  and  affecting  it  by  no  means  for  the  worse, 
except  in  so  far  as  the  dramatic  education  of  the  persons 
concerned  has  been  romantic :  that  is,  spurious,  cheap  and 
vulgar.  In  the  face  of  such  conditions  there  can  be 
no  question  that  the  commercial  limits  should  be  over- 
stepped, and  that  the  highest  prestige,  with  a  personal 
position  of  reasonable  security  and  comfort,  should  be 
attainable  in  theatrical  management  by  keeping  the  pub- 


Preface  xiii 

lie  in  constant  touch  with  the  highest  achievements  of 
dramatic  art.  Our  managers  will  not  dissent  to  this: 
the  best  of  them  are  so  willing  to  get  as  near  that 
position  as  they  can  without  ruining  themselves,  that 
they  can  all  point  to  honorable  losses  incurred  through 
aiming  "  over  the  heads  of  the  public,"  and  are  quite 
willing  to  face  such  a  loss  again  as  soon  as  a  few 
popular  successes  enable  them  to  afford  it,  for  the  sake 
of  their  reputation  as  artists.  But  even  if  it  were  pos- 
sible for  them  to  educate  the  nation  at  their  own  private 
cost,  why  should  they  be  expected  to  do  it?  There 
are  much  stronger  objections  to  the  pauperization  of  the 
public  by  private  doles  than  were  ever  entertained,  even 
by  the  Poor  Law  Commissioners  of  1834,  to  the  pauper- 
ization of  private  individuals  by  public  doles.  If  we 
want  a  theatre  which  shall  be  to  the  drama  what  the 
National  Gallery  and  British  Museum  are  to  painting 
and  literature,  we  can  get  it  by  endowing  it  in  the  same 
way.  The  practical  question  then  is,  where  is  the  State 
to  find  such  a  nucleus  for  a  national  theatre  as  was 
presented  in  the  case  of  the  National  Gallery  by  the 
Angerstein  collection,  and  in  that  of  the  British  Mu- 
seum by  the  Cotton  and  Sloane  collections?  No  doubt 
this  is  the  moment  for  my  old  ally  the  Independent 
Theatre,  and  its  rival  the  New  Century  Theatre,  to 
invite  attention  by  a  modest  cough.  But  though  I  ap- 
preciate the  value  of  both,  I  perceive  that  they  will  be 
as  incapable  of  attracting  a  State  endowment  as  they 
already  are  of  even  uniting  the  supporters  of  "  the  New 
Drama."  The  proper  course  is  to  form  an  influential 
committee,  without  any  actors,  critics,  or  dramatists  on 
it,  and  with  as  many  persons  of  title  as  possible,  for 
the  purpose  of  approaching  one  of  our  leading  man- 
agers with  a  proposal  that  he  shall,  under  a  guarantee 
against  loss,  undertake  a  certain  number  of  afternoon 
performances  of  the  class  required  by  the  committee,  in 
addition  to  his  ordinary  business.     If  the  committee  is 


xiv      Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant 

influential  enough,  the  offer  will  be  accepted.  In  that 
case,  the  first  performance  will  be  the  beginning  of  a 
classic  repertory  for  the  manager  and  his  company 
which  every  subsequent  performance  will  extend.  The 
formation  of  the  repertory  will  go  hand  in  hand  with 
the  discovery  and  habituation  of  a  regular  audience 
for  it,  like  that  of  the  Saturday  Popular  Concerts;  and 
it  will  eventually  become  profitable  for  the  manager  to 
multiply  the  number  of  performances  at  his  own  risk. 
Finally  it  might  become  worth  his  while  to  take  a  second 
theatre  and  establish  the  repertory  permanently  in  it. 
In  the  event  of  any  of  his  classic  productions  proving 
a  fashionable  success,  he  could  transfer  it  to  his  fash- 
ionable house  and  make  the  most  of  it  there.  Such 
managership  would  carry  a  knighthood  with  it;  and  such 
a  theatre  would  be  the  needed  nucleus  for  municipal  or 
national  endowment.  I  make  the  suggestion  quite  dis- 
interestedly; for  as  I  am  not  an  academic  person,  I 
should  not  be  welcomed  as  an  unacted  classic  by  such 
a  committee;  and  cases  like  mine  would  still  leave  fore- 
lorn  hopes  like  the  Independent  and  New  Century  The- 
atres their  reason  for  existing.  The  committee  plan,  I 
may  remind  its  critics,  has  been  in  operation  in  Lon- 
don for  two  hundred  years  in  support  of  Italian  opera. 
Returning  now  to  the  actual  state  of  things,  it  will 
be  seen  that  I  have  no  grievance  against  our  theatres. 
Knowing  quite  well  what  I  was  doing,  I  have  heaped 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  the  performance  of  my  plays 
by  ignoring  the  majority  of  the  manager's  customers — 
nay,  by  positively  making  war  on  them.  To  the  actor 
I  have  been  much  more  considerate,  using  all  my  cun- 
ning to  enable  him  to  make  the  most  of  his  methods; 
but  though  I  have  facilitated  his  business,  I  have  occa- 
sionally taxed  his  intelligence  very  severely,  making  the 
stage  effect  depend  not  only  on  nuances  of  execution 
quite  beyond  the  average  skill  produced  by  the  routine 
of  the  English  stage,  in  its  present  condition,  but  upon 


Preface  xv 

a  perfectly  simple  and  straightforward  conception  of 
states  of  mind  which  still  seem  cynically  perverse  to 
most  people,  or  on  a  goodhumoredly  contemptuous  or 
profoundly  pitiful  attitude  towards  ethical  conceptions 
which  seem  to  them  validly  heroic  or  venerable.  It  is 
inevitable  that  actors  should  suffer  more  than  any  other 
class  from  the  sophistication  of  their  consciousness  by 
romance;  and  my  conception  of  romance  as  the  great 
heresy  to  be  rooted  out  from  art  and  life — as  the  root 
of  modern  pessimism  and  the  bane  of  modern  self- 
respect,  is  far  more  puzzling  to  the  performers  than  it 
is  to  the  pit.  The  misunderstanding  is  complicated  by 
the  fact  that  actors,  in  their  demonstrations  of  emo- 
tion, have  made  a  second  nature  of  stage  custom,  which 
is  often  very  much  out  of  date  as  a  representation  of 
contemporary  life.  Sometimes  the  stage  custom  is  not 
only  obsolete,  but  fundamentally  wrong:  for  instance, 
in  the  simple  case  of  laughter  and  tears,  in  which  it 
deals  too  liberally,  it  is  certainly  not  based  on  the  fact, 
easily  enough  discoverable  in  real  life,  *;hat  tears  in 
adult  life  are  the  natural  expression  of  happiness,  as 
laughter  is  at  all  ages  the  natural  recognition  of  de- 
struction, confusion,  and  ruin.  When  a  comedy  of  mine 
is  performed,  it  is  nothing  to  me  that  the  spectators 
laugh — any  fool  can  make  an  audience  laugh.  I  want 
to  see  how  many  of  them,  laughing  or  grave,  have  tears 
in  their  eyes.  And  this  result  cannot  be  achieved,  even 
by  actors  who  thoroughly  understand  my  purpose,  except 
through  an  artistic  beauty  of  execution  unattainable  with- 
out long  and  arduous  practice,  and  an  effort  which  my 
plays  probably  do  not  seem  serious  enough  to  call  forth. 
Beyond  the  difficulties  thus  raised  by  the  nature  and 
quality  of  my  plays,  I  have  none  to  complain  of.  I  have 
come  upon  no  ill  will,  no  inaccessibility,  on  the  part  of 
the  very  few  managers  with  whom  I  have  discussed  them. 
As  a  rule,  I  find  that  the  actor-manager  is  over-sanguine, 
because  he  has  the  artist's  habit  of  underrating  the  force 


xvi      Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant 

of  circumstances  and  exaggerating  the  power  of  the 
talented  individual  to  prevail  against  them ;  whilst  I 
have  acquired  the  politician's  habit  of  regarding  the  in- 
dividual^ however  talented,  as  having  no  choice  but  to 
make  the  most  of  his  circumstances.  I  half  suspect  that 
those  managers  who  have  had  most  to  do  with  me,  if 
asked  to  name  the  main  obstacle  to  the  performance  of 
my  plays,  would  unhesitatingly  and  unanimously  reply 
"  The  author."  And  I  confess  that  though  as  a  matter 
of  business  I  wish  my  plays  to  be  performed,  as  a 
matter  of  instinct  I  fight  against  the  inevitable  misrepre- 
sentation of  them  with  all  the  subtlety  needed  to  conceal 
my  ill  will  from  myself  as  well  as  from  the  manager. 
The  real  difficulty,  of  course,  is  the  incapacity  for 
serious  drama  of  thousands  of  playgoers  of  all  classes 
whose  shillings  and  half  guineas  will  buy  as  much  in 
the  market  as  if  they  delighted  in  the  highest  art.  But 
with  them  I  must  frankly  take  the  superior  position.  I 
know  that  many  managers  are  wholly  dependent  on  them, 
and  that  no  manager  is  wholly  independent  of  them ;  but 
I  can  no  more  write  what  they  want  than  Joachim  can 
put  aside  his  fiddle  and  oblige  a  happy  company  of 
beanf casters  with  a  marching  tune  on  the  German  con- 
certina. They  must  keep  away  from  my  plays:  that 
is  all.  There  is  no  reason,  however,  why  I  should  take 
this  haughty  attitude  towards  those  representative  critics 
whose  complaint  is  that  my  plays,  though  not  unenter- 
taining,  lack  the  elevation  of  sentiment  and  seriousness 
of  purpose  of  Shakespear  and  Ibsen.  They  can  find, 
under  the  surface  brilliancy  for  which  they  give  me 
credit,  no  coherent  thought  or  sympath)'^,  and  accuse  me, 
in  various  terms  and  degrees,  of  an  inhuman  and  freakish 
wantonness ;  of  preoccupation  with  "  the  seamy  side  of 
life;  "  of  paradox,  cynicism,  and  eccentricity,  reducible, 
as  some  contend,  to  a  trite  formula  of  treating  bad 
as  good,  and  good  as  bad,  important  as  trivial,  and 
trivial  as  important,  serious  as  laughable,  and  laughable 


Preface  xvii 

as  serious,  and  so  forth.  As  to  this  formula  I  can  only 
say  that  if  any  gentleman  is  simple  enough  to  think 
that  even  a  good  comic  opera  can  be  produced  by  it, 
I  invite  him  to  try  his  hand,  and  see  whether  anything 
remotely  resembling  one  of  my  plays  will  result. 

I  could  explain  the  matter  easily  enough  if  I  chose ;  but 
the  result  would  be  that  the  people  who  misunderstand 
the  plays  would  misunderstand  the  explanation  ten  times 
more.  The  particular  exceptions  taken  are  seldom  more 
than  symptoms  of  the  underlying  fundamental  disagree- 
ment between  the  romantic  morality  of  the  critics  and  the 
realistic  morality  of  the  plays.  For  example,  I  am  quite 
aware  that  the  much  criticized  Swiss  officer  in  Arms 
and  the  Man  is  not  a  conventional  stage  soldier.  He 
suffers  from  want  of  food  and  sleep;  his  nerves  go 
to  pieces  after  three  days  under  fire,  ending  in  the 
horrors  of  a  rout  and  pursuit;  he  has  found  by  experi- 
ence that  it  is  more  important  to  have  a  few  bits  of 
chocolate  to  eat  in  the  field  than  cartridges  for  his 
revolver.  When  many  of  my  critics  rejected  these  cir- 
cumstances as  fantastically  improbable  and  cynically 
unnatural,  it  was  not  necessary  to  argue  them  into  com- 
mon sense:  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  brain  them,  so  to 
speak,  with  the  first  half  dozen  military  authorities  at 
hand,  beginning  with  the  present  Commander  in  Chief. 
But  when  it  proved  that  such  unromantic  (but  all  the 
more  dramatic)  facts  implied  to  them  a  denial  of  the 
existence  of  courage,  patriotism,  faith,  hope,  and  charity, 
I  saw  that  it  was  not  really  mere  matter  of  fact  that 
was  at  issue  between  us.  One  strongly  Liberal  critic, 
who  had  received  my  first  play  with  the  most  generous 
encouragement,  declared,  when  Arms  and  the  Man  was 
produced,  that  I  had  struck  a  wanton  blow  at  the  cause 
of  liberty  in  the  Balkan  Peninsula  by  mentioning  that 
it  was  not  a  matter  of  course  for  a  Bulgarian  in  1885 
to  wash  his  hands  every  day.  My  Liberal  critic  no 
doubt   saw   soon   afterwards   the   squabble,   reported   all 


xviii       Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant 

through  Europe,  between  StambouilofF  and  an  eminent 
lady  of  the  Bulgarian  court  who  took  exception  to  his 
neglect  of  his  fingernails.  After  that  came  the  news  of 
his  ferocious  assassination,  and  a  description  of  the  room 
prepared  for  the  reception  of  visitors  by  his  widow,  who 
draped  it  with  black,  and  decorated  it  with  photographs 
of  the  mutilated  body  of  her  husband.  Here  was  a  suffi- 
ciently sensational  confirmation  of  the  accuracy  of  my 
sketch  of  the  theatrical  nature  of  the  first  apings  of 
western  civilization  by  spirited  races  just  emerging  from 
slavery.  But  it  had  no  bearing  on  the  real  issue  between 
my  critic  and  myself,  which  was,  whether  the  political 
and  religious  idealism  which  had  inspired  the  rescue  of 
these  Balkan  principalities  from  the  despotism  of  the 
Turk,  and  converted  miserably  enslaved  provinces  into 
hopeful  and  gallant  little  states,  will  survive  the  general 
onslaught  on  idealism  which  is  implicit,  and  indeed  ex- 
plicit, in  Arms  and  the  Man  and  the  realistic  plays  of 
the  modern  school,  lor  my  part  I  hope  not;  for  ideal- 
ism, which  is  only  a  flattering  name  for  romance  in 
politics  and  morals,  is  as  obnoxious  to  me  as  romance  in 
ethics  or  religion.  In  spite  of  a  Liberal  Revolution  or 
two,  I  can  no  longer  be  satisfied  with  fictitious  morals 
and  fictitious  good  conduct,  shedding  fictitious  glory  on 
overcrowding,  disease,  crime,  drink,  war,  cruelty,  infant 
mortality,  and  all  the  other  commonplaces  of  civilization 
which  drive  men  to  the  theatre  to  make  foolish  pretences 
that  these  things  are  progress,  science,  morals,  religion, 
patriotism,  imperial  supremacy,  national  greatness  and 
all  the  other  names  the  newspapers  call  them.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  see  plenty  of  good  in  the  world  working 
itself  out  as  fast  as  the  idealist  will  allow  it;  and  if 
they  would  only  let  it  alone  and  learn  to  respect  reality, 
which  would  include  the  beneficial  exercise  of  respecting 
themselves,  and  incidentally  respecting  me,  we  should 
all  get  along  much  better  and  faster.  At  all  events,  I 
do  not  see  moral  chaos  and  anarchy  as  the  alternative 


Preface  xix 

to  romantic  convention;  and  I  am  not  going  to  pre- 
tend that  I  do  to  please  the  less  clear-sighted  people 
who  are  convinced  that  the  world  is  only  held  together 
by  the  force  of  unanimous,  strenuous,  eloquent,  trumpet- 
tongued  lying.  To  me  the  tragedy  and  comedy  of  life 
lie  in  the  consequences,  sometimes  terrible,  sometimes  lu- 
dicrous, of  our  persistent  attempts  to  found  our  insti- 
tutions on  the  ideals  suggested  to  our  imaginations  by 
our  half-satisfied  passions,  instead  of  on  a  genuinely 
scientific  natural  history.  And  with  that  hint  as  to 
what  I  am  driving  at,  I  withdraw  and  ring  up  the 
curtain. 


INTRODUCTION 

To  the  irreverent — and  which  of  us  will  claim  entire 
exemption  from  that  comfortable  classification? — there  is 
something  very  amusing  in  the  attitude  of  the  orthodox 
criticism  toward  Bernai-d  Shaw,  He  so  obviously  disre- 
gards all  the  canons  and  unities  and  other  Jiings  which 
every  well-bred  dramatist  is  bound  to  respect  that  his 
work  is  really  unworthy  of  serious  criticism  (orthodox). 
Indeed  he  knows  no  more  about  the  dranuitic  art  than,  ac- 
cording to  his  own  story  in  "^'The  Man  of  Destiny,"  Napo- 
leon at  Tavazzano  knew  of  the  Art  of  War.  But  both 
men  were  successes  each  in  his  way — the  latter  won  vic- 
tories and  the  former  gained  audiences,  in  the  very  teeth 
of  the  accepted  theories  of  war  and  the  theatre.  Shaw 
does  not  know  that  it  is  unpardonable  sin  to  have  his  char- 
acters make  long  speeches  at  one  another,  apjiarently 
thinking  tliat  this  embargo  applies  only  to  long  speeches 
which  consist  mainly  of  bombast  and  rhetoric. 

There  never  was  an  author  who  showed  less  predilection 
for  a  specific  medium  by  which  to  accomplish  his  results. 
He  recognized,  early  in  his  days,  many  things  awry  in  the 
world  and  he  assumed  the  task  of  mundane  reformation 
with  a  confident  spirit.  It  seems  such  a  small  job  at 
twenty  to  set  the  times  aright.  He  began  as  an  Essay- 
ist, but  who  reads  essays  now-a-days? — he  then  turned 
novelist  with  no  better  success,  for  no  one  would  read  such 
preposterous  stuff  as  he  chose  to  emit.  He  only  succeeded 
in  proving  that  absolutely  rational  men  and  women — al- 
though he  has  created  few  of  the  latter — can  be  most  ex- 
tremely disagreeable  to  our  conventional  way  of  thinking. 


xxii      Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant 

As  a  last  resort,  he  turned  to  the  stage,  not  that  he  cared 
for  the  dramatic  art,  for  no  man  seems  to  care  less  about 
"Art  for  Art's  sake,"  being  in  this  a  perfect  foil  to  his 
brilliant  compatriot  and  contemporary,  Wilde.  He  cast 
his  theories  in  dramatic  forms  merely  because  no  other 
course  except  silence  or  physical  revolt  was  open  to  him. 
For  a  long  time  it  seemed  as  if  this  resource  too  was 
doomed  to  fail  him.  But  finally  he  has  attained  a  hearing 
and  now  attempts  at  suppression  merely  serve  to  advertise 
their  victim. 

It  will  repay  those  who  seek  analogies  in  literature  to 
compare  Shaw  with  Cervantes.  After  a  life  of  heroic  en- 
deavor, disappointment,  slavery,  and  poverty,  the  author  of 
''  Don  Quixote  "  gave  the  world  a  serious  work  which  caused 
to  be  laughed  off  the  world's  stage  forever  the  final  ves- 
tiges of  decadent  chivalry. 

The  institution  had  long  been  outgrown,  but  its  vernac- 
ular continued  to  be  the  speech  and  to  express  the  thought 
"of  the  world  and  among  the  vulgar,"  as  the  quaint,  old 
novelist  puts  it,  just  as  to-day  the  novel  intended  for  the 
consumption  of  the  unenlightened  must  deal  with  peers 
and  millionnaires  and  be  dressed  in  stilted  language. 
Marvellously  he  succeeded,  but  in  a  way  he  least  intended. 
We  have  not  yet,  after  so  many  years,  deteraiined  whether 
it  is  a  work  to  laugh  or  cry  over.  "  It  is  our  joyfullest 
modern  book,"  says  Carlyle,  while  Landor  thinks  that 
** readers  who  see  nothing  more  than  a  burlesque  in  *Don 
Quixote'  have  but  shallow  appreciation  of  the  work." 

Shaw  in  like  manner  comes  upon  the  scene  when  many 
of  our  social  usages  are  outworn.  He  sees  the  fact,  an- 
nounces it,  and  we  burst  into  guffaws.  The  continuous 
laughter  which  greets  Shaw's  plays  arises  from  a  real 
contrast  in  the  point  of  view  of  the  dramatist  and  his 
audiences.  When  Pinero  or  Jones  describes  a  whimsical 
situation  we  never  doubt  for  a  moment  that  the  author's 
point  of  view  is  our  own  and  that  the  abnormal  predicament 
of  his  characters  appeals  to  him  in  the  same  light  as  to  his 


Introduction  xxiii 

audience.  With  Shaw  this  sense  of  community  of  feeling 
is  wholly  lacking.  He  describes  things  as  he  sees  them, 
and  the  house  is  in  a  roar.  Who  is  right.''  If  we  were 
really  using  our  own  senses  and  not  gazing  through  the 
glasses  of  convention  and  romance  and  make-believe, 
should  we  see  things  as  Shaw  does.'' 

Must  it  not  cause  Shaw  to  doubt  his  own  or  the  public's 
sanity  to  hear  audiences  laughing  boisterously  over  tragic 
situations  ?  And  yet,  if  they  did  not  come  to  laugh, 
they  would  not  come  at  all.  Mockery  is  the  price 
he  must  pay  for  a  hearing.  Or  has  he  calculated  to  a 
nicety  the  power  of  reaction  }  Does  he  seek  to  drive  us 
to  aspiration  by  the  portrayal  of  sordidness,  to  disinter- 
estedness by  the  picture  of  selfishness,  to  illusion  by  dis- 
illusionment.''  It  is  impossible  to  believe  that  he  is 
unconscious  of  the  humor  of  his  dramatic  situations,  yet 
he  stoically  gives  no  sign.  He  even  dares  the  charge,  ter- 
rible in  proportion  to  its  truth,  which  the  most  serious 
of  us  shrinks  from — the  lack  of  a  sense  of  humor.  Men 
would  rather  have  their  integrity  impugned. 

In  "  Arms  and  the  Man  "  the  subject  which  occupies  the 
dramatist's  attention  is  that  survival  of  barbarity — mili- 
tarism— which  raises  its  horrid  head  from  time  to  time  to 
cast  a  doubt  on  the  reality  of  our  civilization.  No  more 
hoary  superstition  survives  than  that  the  donning  of  a  uni- 
form changes  the  nature  of  the  wearer.  This  notion 
pervades  society  to  such  an  extent  that  when  we  find  some 
soldiers  placed  upon  the  stage  acting  rationally,  our  con- 
ventionalized senses  are  shocked.  The  only  men  who 
have  no  illusions  about  war  are  those  who  have  recently 
been  there,  and,  of  course,  Mr.  Shaw,  who  has  no  illusions 
about  anything. 

It  is  hard  to  speak  too  highly  of  "  Candida."  No  equally 
subtle  and  incisive  study  of  domestic  relations  exists  in 
the  English  drama.  One  has  to  turn  to  George  Meredith's 
"The  Egoist"  to  find  such  character  dissection.  The 
central   note  of  the  play  is,  that  with  the  true  woman. 


xxiv     Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant 

weakness  which  appeals  to  the  maternal  instinct  is  more 
powerful  than  strength  which  offers  protection.  Candida  is 
quite  unpoetic,  as,  indeed,  with  rare  exceptions,  women 
are  prone  to  be.  They  have  small  delight  in  poetry,  but 
are  the  stuff  of  which  poems  and  dreams  are  made.  The 
husband  glorying  in  his  strength  but  convicted  of  his  weak- 
ness, the  poet  pitiful  in  his  physical  impotence  but  strong 
in  his  perception  of  truth,  the  hopelessly  de-moralized 
manufacturer,  the  conventional  and  hence  emotional  typist 
make  up  a  group  which  the  drama  of  any  language  may  be 
challenged  to  rival. 

In  "The  Man  of  Destiny"  the  object  of  the  dramatist  is 
not  so  much  the  destruction  as  the  explanation  of  the 
Napoleonic  tradition,  which  has  so  powerfully  influenced 
generation  after  generation  for  a  century.  However  the 
man  may  be  regarded,  he  was  a  miracle.  Shaw  shows  that 
he  achieved  his  extraordinary  career  by  suspending,  for 
himself,  the  pressure  of  the  moral  and  conventional  atmos- 
phere, while  leaving  it  operative  for  others.  Those  who 
study  this  play — extravaganza,  that  it  is — will  attain  a 
clearer  comprehension  of  Napoleon  than  they  can  get  from 
all  the  biographies. 

"You  Never  Can  Tell"  offers  an  amusing  study  of  the 
play  of  social  conventions.  The  'Hwins"  illustrate  the  dis- 
concerting effects  of  that  perfect  frankness  which  would 
make  life  intolerable.  Gloria  demonstrates  the  power- 
lessness  of  reason  to  overcome  natural  instincts.  The 
idea  that  parental  duties  and  functions  can  be  fulfilled  by 
the  light  of  such  knowledge  as  man  and  woman  attain  by 
intuition  is  brilliantly  lampooned.  Crampton,  the  father, 
typifies  the  common  superstition  that  among  the  privileges 
of  parenthood  are  inflexibility,  tyranny,  and  respect,  the 
last  entirely  regardless  of  whether  it  has  been  deserved. 

The  waiter,  William,  is  the  best  illustration  of  the  man 
''who  knows  his  place"  that  the  stage  has  seen.  He  is 
the  most  pathetic  figure  of  the  play.  One  touch  of  verisi- 
militude is  lacking;  none  of  the  guests  gives  him  a  tip. 


Introduction  xxv 

yet  he  maintains  his  urbanity.  As  Mr.  Shaw  has  not  yet 
visited  America  he  may  be  unaware  of  the  improbability 
of  this  situation. 

To  those  who  regard  Hterary  men  merely  as  purveyors 
of  amusement  for  people  who  have  not  wit  enough  to 
entertain  themselves,  Ibsen  and  Shaw,  Maeterlinck  and 
Gorky  must  remain  enigmas.  It  is  so  much  pleasanterto 
ignore  than  to  face  unpleasant  realities — to  take  Riverside 
Drive  and  not  Mulberry  Street  as  the  exponent  of  our  life 
and  the  expression  of  our  civilization.  These  men  are  the 
sappers  and  miners  of  the  advancing  army  of  justice.  The 
audience  which  demands  the  truth  and  despises  the  con- 
temptible conventions  that  dominate  alike  our  stage  and 
our  life  is  daily  growing.  Shaw  and  men  like  him — if  in- 
deed he  is  not  absolutely  unique — will  not  for  the  future 
lack  a  hearing. 

M. 


ARMS  AND   THE   MAN 


ARMS    AND    THE    MAN 


ACT    I 

Night.  A  lady's  bedchamber  in  Bulgaria,  in  a  small 
town  near  the  Dragoman  Pass.  It  is  late  in  November 
in  the  year  1885,  and  through  an  open  window  with  a 
little  balcony  on  the  left  can  be  seen  a  peak  of  the 
Balkans,  wonderfully  white  and  beautiful  in  the  starlit 
snow.  The  interior  of  the  room  is  not  like  anything  to 
be  seen  in  the  east  of  Europe.  It  is  half  rich  Bulgarian, 
half  cheap  Viennese.  The  counterpane  and  hangings  of 
the  bed,  the  window  curtains,  the  little  carpet,  and  all 
the  ornamental  textile  fabrics  in  the  room  are  oriental 
and  gorgeous:  the  paper  on  the  walls  is  occidental  and 
paltry.  Above  the  head  of  the  bed,  which  stands  against 
a  little  wall  cutting  off  the  right  hand  corner  of  the  room 
diagonally,  is  a  painted  ivooden  shrine,  blue  and  gold, 
with  an  ivory  image  of  Christ,  and  a  light  hanging  be- 
fore it  in  a  pierced  metal  ball  suspended  by  three  chains. 
On  the  left,  further  forward,  is  an  ottoman.  The  wash- 
stand,  against  the  wall  on  the  left,  consists  of  an 
enamelled  iron  basin  with  a  pail  beneath  it  in  a  painted 
metal  frame,  and  a  single  towel  on  the  rail  at  the  side. 
A  chair  near  it  is  Austrian  bent  wood,  with  cane  seat. 
The  dressing  table,  between  the  bed  and  the  window, 
is  an  ordinary  pine  table,  covered  with  a  cloth  of  many 
colors,  but  with  an  expensive  toilet  mirror  on  it.  The 
door  is  on  the  right;  and  there  is  a  chest  of  drawers  be- 

3 


4  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  I 

tween  the  door  and  the  bed.  This  chest  of  drawers  is 
also  covered  by  a  variegated  native  cloth,  and  on  it  there 
is  a  pile  of  paper  backed  novels,  a  box  of  chocolate 
creams,  and  a  miniature  easel,  on  which  is  a  large  pho- 
tograph of  an  extremely  handsome  officer,  whose  lofty 
bearing  and  magnetic  glance  can  be  felt  even  from  the 
portrait.  The  room  is  lighted  by  a  candle  on  the  chest 
of  drawers,  and  another  on  the  dressing  table,  with  a 
box  of  matches  beside  it. 

The  window  is  hinged  doorwise  and  stands  wide  open, 
folding  back  to  the  left.  Outside  a  pair  of  wooden  shut- 
ters, opening  outwards,  also  stand  open.  On  the  bal- 
cony, a  young  lady,  intensely  conscious  of  the  romantic 
be  uty  of  the  night,  and  of  the  fact  that  her  own  youth 
and  beauty  is  a  part  of  it,  is  on  the  balcony,  gazing  at 
the  snowy  Balkans.  She  is  covered  by  a  long  mantle  of 
furs,  worth,  on  a  moderate  estimate,  about  three  times 
the  furniture  of  her  room. 

Her  reverie  is  interrupted  by  her  mother,  Catherine 
Petkoff,  a  woman  over  forty,  imperiously  energetic,  with 
magnificent  black  hair  and  eyes,  who  might  be  a  very 
splendid  specimen  of  the  wife  of  a  mountain  farmer,  but 
is  determined  to  be  a  Viennese  lady,  and  to  that  end 
wears  a  fashionable  tea  gown  on  all  occasions. 

Catherine  {entering  hastily,  full  of  good  news^. 
Raina — (she  pronounces  it  Rah-eena,  with  the  stress  on 
the  ee)  Raina —  (she  goes  to  the  bed,  expecting  to  find 
Raina  there)  Why,  where —  (Raina  looks  into  the 
room.)  Heavens!  child,  are  you  out  in  the  night  air  in- 
stead of  in  your  bed  ?  You'll  catch  your  death.  Louka 
told  me  you  were  asleep. 

Raina  (coming  in).  I  sent  her  away.  I  wanted  to 
be  alone.  The  stars  are  so  beautiful !  What  is  the 
matter  ? 

Catherine.     Such  news.     There  has  been  a  battle ! 

Raina    (her   eyes   dilating).     Ah!      (She   throws   the 


Act  I  Arms  and  the  Man  5 

cloak  on  the  ottoman,  and  comes  eagerly  to  Catherine  in 
her  nightgown,  a  pretty  garment,  but  evidently  the  only 
one  she  has  on.) 

Catherine.  A  great  battle  at  Slivnitza!  A  victory! 
And  it  was  won  by  Sergius. 

Raina  (with  a  cry  of  delight).  Ah!  {Rapturously.) 
Oh,  mother!  {Then,  with  sudden  anxiety)  Is  father 
safe? 

Catherine.  Of  course:  he  sent  me  the  news.  Ser- 
gius is  the  hero  of  the  hour,  the  idol  of  the  regiment. 

Raina.  Tell  me,  tell  me.  How  was  it !  {Ecstati- 
cally.) Oh,  mother,  mother,  mother!  {Raina  pulls  her 
mother  down  on  the  ottoman;  and  they  kiss  one  another 
frantically.) 

Catherine  {with  surging  enthusiasm) .  You  can  t 
guess  how  splendid  it  is.  A  cavalry  charge — think  of 
that!  He  defied  our  Russian  commanders — acted  with- 
out orders — led  a  charge  on  his  own  responsibility — 
headed  it  himself — was  the  first  man  to  sweep  through 
their  guns.  Can't  you  see  it,  Raina;  our  gallant  splen- 
did Bulgarians  with  their  swords  and  eyes  flashing, 
thundering  down  like  an  avalanche  and  scattering  the 
wretched  Servian  dandies  like  chaff.  And  you — you 
kept  Sergius  waiting  a  year  before  you  would  be  be- 
trothed to  him.  Oh,  if  you  have  a  drop  of  Bulgarian 
blood  in  your  veins,  you  will  worship  him  when  he  comes 
back. 

Raina.  What  will  he  care  for  my  poor  little  worship 
after  the  acclamations  of  a  whole  army  of  heroes?  But 
no  matter:  I  am  so  happy — so  proud!  {She  rises  and 
walks  about  excitedly.)  It  proves  that  all  our  ideas  were 
real  after  all. 

Catherine  {indignantly).  Our  ideas  real !  What  do 
you  mean? 

Raina.  Our  ideas  of  what  Sergius  would  do — our 
patriotism — our  heroic  ideals.  Oh,  what  faithless  little 
creatures  girls  are ! —    I  sometimes  used  to  doubt  whether 


6  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  I 

they  were  anj-thing  but  dreams.  When  I  buckled  on 
Sergius's  sword  he  looked  so  noble:  it  was  treason  to 
think  of  disillusion  or  humiliation  or  failure.  And 
yet — and  yet —  (Quickly.)  Promise  me  you'll  never 
tell  him. 

Catherine.  Don't  ask  me  for  promises  until  I  know 
what  I  am  promising. 

Rain  A.  Well,  it  came  into  my  head  just  as  he  was 
holding  me  in  his  arms  and  looking  into  my  eyes,  that 
perhaps  we  only  had  our  heroic  ideas  because  we  are 
so  fond  of  reading  Byron  and  Pushkin,  and  because  we 
were  so  delighted  with  the  opera  that  season  at  Bucharest. 
Real  life  is  so  seldom  like  that — indeed  never,  as  far 
as  I  knew  it  then.  (Remorse fully.)  Only  think,  mother, 
I  doubted  him :  I  wondered  whether  all  his  heroic  quali- 
ties and  his  soldiership  might  not  prove  mere  imagination 
when  he  went  into  a  real  battle.  I  had  an  uneasy  fear 
that  he  might  cut  a  poor  figure  there  beside  all  those 
clever  Russian  officers. 

Catherine.  A  poor  figure !  Shame  on  you !  The 
Servians  have  Austrians  officers  who  are  just  as  clever 
as  our  Russians ;  but  we  have  beaten  them  in  every  battle 
for  all  that. 

Raina  (laughing  and  sitting  down  again).  Yes,  I 
was  only  a  prosaic  little  coward.  Oh,  to  think  that  it 
was  all  true — that  Sergius  is  just  as  splendid  and  noble 
as  he  looks — that  the  world  is  really  a  glorious  world 
for  women  who  can  see  its  glory  and  men  who  can  act 
its  romance !  What  happiness  !  what  unspeakable  fulfil- 
ment! Ah!  (She  throws  herself  on  her  knees  beside  her 
mother  and  flings  her  arms  passionately  round  her. 
They  are  interrupted  hy  the  entry  of  Louka,  a  hand- 
some, proud  girl  in  a  pretty  Bulgarian  peasant's  dress 
with  double  apron,  so  defiant  that  her  servility  to  Raina 
is  almost  insolent.  She  is  afraid  of  Catherine,  but  even 
with  her  goes  as  far  as  she  dares.  She  is  just  now 
excited  like   the  others;  but  she   has  no  sympathy   for" 


Act  I  Arms  and  the  Man  7 

Raina's  raptures  and  looks  contemptuously  at  the  ecsta- 
sies of  the  two  before  she  addresses  them.) 

LouKA.  If  you  please^  madam,  all  the  windows  are 
to  be  closed  and  the  shutters  made  fast.  They  say  there 
may  be  shooting  in  the  streets.  (Raina  and  Catherine 
rise  together,  alarmed.)  The  Servians  are  being  chased 
right  back  through  the  pass ;  and  they  say  they  may  run 
into  the  town.  Our  cavalry  will  be  after  them ;  and  our 
people  will  be  ready  for  them  you  may  be  sure,  now 
that  they  are  running  away.  (She  goes  out  on  the  bal- 
cony and  pulls  the  outside  shutters  to;  then  steps  back 
into  the  room.) 

Raina.  I  wish  our  people  were  not  so  cruel.  What 
glory  is  there  in  killing  wretched  fugitives  ? 

Catherine  (business-like,  her  housekeeping  instincts 
aroused).  I  must  see  that  everything  is  made  safe  down- 
stairs. 

Raina  (to  Louka).  Leave  the  shutters  so  that  I  cart 
just  close  them  if  I  hear  any  noise. 

Catherine  (authoritatively ,  turning  on  her  way  to  the 
door).  Oh,  no,  dear,  you  must  keep  them  fastened.  You 
would  be  sure  to  drop  off  to  sleep  and  leave  them  open. 
Make  them  fast,  Louka. 

LouKA.     Yes,  madam.     (She  fastens  them.) 

Raina.  Don't  be  anxious  about  me.  The  moment  I 
hear  a  shot,  I  shall  blow  out  the  candles  and  roll  myself 
up  in  bed  with  my  ears  well  covered. 

Catherine.  Quite  the  wisest  thing  you  can  do,  my 
love.     Good-night. 

Raina.  Good-night.  (They  kiss  one  another,  and 
Raina's  emotion  comes  back  for  a  moment.)  Wish  me 
joy  of  the  happiest  night  of  my  life — if  only  there  are 
no  fugitives. 

Catherine.  Go  to  bed,  dear;  and  don't  think  of 
them.     (She  goes  out.) 

Louka  (secretly,  to  Raina).  If  you  would  like  the 
shutters   open,  just  give  them  a  push   like  this.      (She^ 


8  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  I 

pushes  them:  they  open:  she  pulls  them  to  again.)  One 
of  them  ought  to  be  bolted  at  the  bottom;  but  the  bolt's 
gone. 

Raina  (with  dignity,  reproving  her).  Thanks,  Louka; 
but  we  must  do  what  we  are  told.  (Louka  makes  a 
grimace.)      Good-night. 

Louka  (carelessly).  Good-night.  (She  goes  out, 
swaggering.) 

(Raina,  left  alone,  goes  to  the  chest  of  drawers,  and 
adores  the  portrait  there  with  feelings  that  are  beyond 
all  expression.  She  does  not  kiss  it  or  press  it  to  her 
breast,  or  shew  it  any  mark  of  bodily  affection;  but  she 
takes  it  in  her  hands  and  elevates  it  like  a  priestess.) 

Raina  (looking  up  at  the  picture  with  worship).  Oh, 
I  shall  never  be  unworthy  of  you  any  more,  my  hero — 
never,  never,  never.  (She  replaces  it  reverently,  and 
selects  a  novel  from  the  little  pile  of  books.  She  turns 
over  the  leaves  dreamily;  finds  her  page;  turns  the  book 
inside  out  at  it;  and  then,  with  a  happy  sigh,  gets  into 
bed  and  prepares  to  read  herself  to  sleep.  But  before 
abandoning  herself  to  fiction,  she  raises  her  eyes  once 
more,  thinking  of  the  blessed  reality  and  murmurs)  My 
hero !  my  hero !  (A  distant  shot  breaks  the  quiet  of  the 
night  outside.  She  starts,  listening;  and  two  more  shots, 
much  nearer,  follow,  startling  her  so  that  she  scrambles 
out  of  bed,  and  hastily  blows  out  the  candle  on  the  chest 
of  drawers.  Then,  putting  her  fingers  in  her  ears,  she 
runs  to  the  dressing-table  and  blows  out  the  light  there, 
and  hurries  back  to  bed.  The  room  is  now  in  darkness: 
nothing  is  visible  but  the  glimmer  of  the  light  in  the 
pierced  ball  before  the  image,  and  the  starlight  seen 
through  the  slits  at  the  top  of  the  shutters.  The  firing 
breaks  out  again :  there  is  a  startling  fusillade  quite  close 
at  hand.  Whilst  it  is  still  echoing,  the  shutters  disap- 
pear, pulled  open  from  without,  and  for  an  instant  the 
rectangle  of  snowy  starlight  flashes  out  with  the  figure 
of  a  man  in  black  upon  it.     The  shutters  close  immedi- 


Act  I  Arms  and  the  Man  9 

ately  and  the  room  is  dark  again.  But  the  silence  isi 
now  broken  by  the  sound  of  panting.  Then  there  is  a 
scrape;  and  the  f.ame  of  a  match  is  seen  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.) 

Rain  A  {crouching  on  the  bed).  Who's  there?  (The 
match  is  out  instantly.)     Who's  there?     Who  is  that? 

A  Man's  Voice  {iii  the  darkness,  subduedly,  but 
threateningly).  Sh — sh !  Don't  call  out  or  you'll  be 
shot.  Be  good;  and  no  harm  will  happen  to  you.  {She 
is  heard  leaving  her  bed,  and  making  for  the  door.) 
Take  care,  there's  no  use  in  trying  to  run  away.  Remem- 
ber, if  you  raise  your  voice  my  pistol  will  go  off.  {Com- 
mandingly.)  Strike  a  light  and  let  me  see  you.  Do  you 
hear?  {Another  moment  of  silence  and  darkness.  Then 
she  is  heard  retreating  to  the  dressing-table.  She  lights 
a  candle,  and  the  mystery  is  at  an  end.  A  man  of  about 
85,  in  a  deplorable  plight,  bespattered  rvith  mud  and 
blood  and  snow,  his  belt  and  the  strap  of  his  revolver 
case  keeping  together  the  torn  ruins  of  the  blue  coat  of  a 
Servian  artillery  officer.  As  far  as  the  candlelight  and  his 
unwashed,  unkempt  condition  make  it  possible  to  judge, 
he  is  a  man  of  middling  stature  and  undistinguished 
appearance,  with  strong  neck  and  shoulders,  a  roundish, 
obstinate  looking  head  covered  with  short  crisp  bronze 
curls,  clear  quick  blue  eyes  and  good  brows  and  mouth,  a 
hopelessly  prosaic  nose  like  that  of  a  strong-minded  baby, 
trim  soldierlike  carriage  and  energetic  manner,  and  with 
all  his  wits  about  him  in  spite  of  his  desperate  predica- 
ment— even  with  a  sense  of  humor  of  it,  without,  how- 
ever, the  least  intention  of  trifling  with  it  or  throwing 
away  a  chance.  He  reckons  up  what  he  can  guess  about 
Raina — her  age,  her  social  position,  her  character,  the 
extent  to  which  she  is  frightened — at  a  glance,  and  con- 
tinues,  more  politely  but  still  most  determinedly)  Excuse 
my  disturbing  you;  but  you  recognise  my  uniform — 
Servian.  If  I'm  caught  I  shall  be  killed.  {Deter- 
minedly.)    Do  you  imderstand  that? 


10  Arms  and  the  Ma,n  Act  I 

Raina.     Yes. 

Man.  Well,  I  don't  intend  to  get  killed  if  I  can  help 
it.  {Still  more  determinedly.)  Do  you  understand 
that?      (He  locks  the  door  with  a  snap.) 

Raina  {disdainfully).  I  suppose  not.  {She  draws 
herself  up  superbly,  and  looks  him  straight  in  the  face, 
saying  with  emphasis)  Some  soldiers,  I  know,  are 
afraid  of  death. 

Man  {with  grim  goodhumor) .  All  of  them,  dear  lady, 
all  of  them,  believe  me.  It  is  our  duty  to  live  as  long  as 
we  can,  and  kill  as  many  of  the  enemy  as  we  can.  Now 
if  you  raise  an  alarm 

Raina  {cutting  him  short).  You  will  shoot  me.  How 
do  you  know  that  I  am  afraid  to  die? 

Man  {cunningly).  Ah;  but  suppose  I  don't  shoot 
you,  what  will  happen  then  ?  Why,  a  lot  of  your  cavalry 
— the  greatest  blackguards  in  your  army — will  burst  into 
this  pretty  room  of  yours  and  slaughter  me  here  like  a 
pig;  for  I'll  fight  like  a  demon:  they  shan't  get  me  into 
the  street  to  amuse  themselves  with:  I  know  what  they 
are.  Are  you  prepared  to  receive  that  sort  of  company 
in  your  present  undress?  {Raina,  suddenly  conscious  of 
her  nightgown,  instinctively  shrinks  and  gathers  it  more 
closely  about  her.  He  watches  her,  and  adds,  pitilessly) 
It's  rather  scanty,  eh?  {She  turns  to  the  ottoman.  He 
raises  his  pistol  instantly,  and  cries)  Stop !  {She 
stops.)      Where  are  you  going? 

Raina  {with  dignified  patience).  Only  to  get  my 
-cloak. 

Man  {darting  to  the  ottoman  and  snatching  the  cloak). 
A  good  idea.  No:  I'll  keep  the  cloak:  and  you  will 
take  care  that  nobody  comes  in  and  sees  you  without  it. 
This  is  a  better  weapon  than  the  pistol.  {He  throws  the 
pistol  down  on  the  ottoman.) 

Raina  {revolted).  It  is  not  the  weapon  of  a  gentle- 
man ! 

Man.     It's  good  enough  for  a  man  with  only  you  to 


Act  I  Arms  and  the  Man  11 

stand  between  him  and  death.  (As  they  look  at  one 
another  for  a  moment,  Raina  hardly  able  to  believe  that 
even  a  Servian  officer  can  be  so  cynically  and  selfishly 
unchivalrous,  they  are  startled  by  a  sharp  fusillade  in 
the  street.  The  chill  of  imminent  death  hushes  the  man's 
voice  as  he  adds)  Do  you  hear?  If  you  are  going  to 
bring  those  scoundrels  in  on  me  you  shall  receive  them 
as  you  are.  (Raina  meets  his  eye  with  unflinching  scorn. 
Suddenly  he  starts,  listening.  There  is  a  step  outside. 
Someone  tries  the  door,  and  then  knocks  hurriedly  and 
urgently  at  it.  Raina  looks  at  the  man,  breathless.  He 
throws  up  his  head  with  the  gesture  of  a  man  who  sees 
that  it  is  all  over  with  him,  and,  dropping  the  manner 
which  he  has  been  assuming  to  intimidate  her,  flings  the 
cloak  to  her,  exclaiming,  sincerely  and  kindly)  No  use: 
I'm  done  for.    Quick!  wrap  yourself  up:  they're  coming! 

Raina  (catching  the  cloak  eagerly).  Oh,  thank  you. 
(She  wraps  herself  up  with  great  relief.  He  draws  his 
sabre  and  turns  to  the  door,  waiting.) 

L,ovKA  (outside,  knocking).  My  lady,  my  lady !  Get 
up,  quick,  and  open  the  door. 

Raina   (anxiously).     What  will  you  do? 

Man  (grimly).  Never  mind.  Keep  out  of  the  way. 
It  will  not  last  long. 

Raina  (impulsively).  I'll  help  you.  Hide  yourself, 
oh,  hide  yourself,  quick,  behind  the  curtain.  (She  seizes 
him  by  a  torn  strip  of  his  sleeve,  and  pulls  him  towards 
the  window.) 

Man  (yielding  to  her).  There  is  just  half  a  chance, 
if  you  keep  your  head.  Remember:  nine  soldiers  out  of 
ten  are  born  fools.  (He  hides  behind  the  curtain, 
looking  out  for  a  moment  to  say,  finally)  If  they  find 
me,  I  promise  you  a  fight — a  devil  of  a  fight!  (He  dis- 
appears. Raina  takes  off  the  cloak  and  throws  it  across 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Then  with  a  sleepy,  disturbed  air, 
she  opens  the  door.    Louka  enters  excitedly.) 

LouKA.     A  man  has  been  seen  climbing  up  the  water- 


12  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  I 

pipe  to  your  balcony — a  Servian.  The  soldiers  want  to 
search  for  him;  and  they  are  so  wild  and  drunk  and 
furious.    My  lady  says  you  are  to  dress  at  once. 

Raina  (as  if  annoyed  at  being  disturbed).  They  shall 
not  search  here.     Why  have  they  been  let  in  ? 

Catherine  (coming  in  hastily).  Raina,  darling,  are 
you  safe.''     Have  you  seen  anyone  or  heard  anything.'' 

Raina.  I  heard  the  shooting.  Surely  the  soldiers 
will  not  dare  come  in  here.'' 

Catherine.  I  have  found  a  Russian  officer,  thank 
Heaven:  he  knows  Sergius.  (Speaking  through  the  door 
to  someone  outside.)  Sir,  will  you  come  in  now!  My 
daughter  is  ready. 

(A  young  Russian  officer,  in  Bulgarian  uniform,  en- 
ters, sword  in  hand.) 

The  Officer  (with  soft,  feline  politeness  and  stiff 
military  carriage).  Good  evening,  gracious  lady;  I  ara 
sorry  to  intrude,  but  there  is  a  fugitive  hiding  on  the 
balcony.  Will  you  and  the  gracious  lady  your  mother 
please  to  withdraw  whilst  we  search.'' 

Raina  (petulantly).  Nonsense,  sir,  you  can  see  that 
there  is  no  one  on  the  balcony.  (She  throws  the  shut- 
ters wide  open  and  stands  with  her  back  to  the  curtain 
where  the  man  is  hidden,  pointing  to  the  moonlit  bal- 
cony. A  couple  of  shots  are  fired  right  under  the  win- 
dow, and  a  bullet  shatters  the  glass  opposite  Raina,  who 
winks  and  gasps,  but  stands  her  ground,  whilst  Catherine 
screams,  and  the  officer  rushes  to  the  balcony.) 

The  Officer  (on  the  balcony,  shouting  savagely  down 
to  the  street).  Cease  firing  there,  you  fools;  do  you 
hear?  Cease  firing,  damn  you.  (He  glares  down  for  a 
moment;  then  turns  to  Raina,  trying  to  resume  his  polite 
manner.)  Could  anyone  have  got  in  without  your  knowl- 
edge.    Were  you  asleep.'' 

Raina.      No,  I  have  not  been  to  bed. 

The  Officer  (impatiently,  coming  back  into  the 
room).     Your  neighbours  have  their  heads  so  full  of  run- 


Act  I  Arms  and  the  Man  13 

away  Servians  that  they  see  them  everywhere.  (Po~ 
liteh/.)  Gracious  lady^  a  thousand  pardons.  Good-night. 
(Military  bow,  which  Raina  returns  coldly.  Another  to 
Catherine,  who  follows  him  out.  Raina  closes  the  shut- 
ters. She  turns  and  sees  Louka,  who  has  been  watching 
the  scene  curiously.) 

Raina.  Don't  leave  my  mother,  Louka,  whilst  the 
soldiers  are  here.  {Louka  glances  at  Raina,  at  the  otto- 
man, at  the  curtain;  then  purses  her  lips  secretively, 
laughs  to  herself,  and  goes  out.  Raina  follows  her  tv 
the  door,  shuts  it  behind  her  with  a  slam,  and  locks  it 
violently.  The  man  im?nediately  steps  out  from  behind 
the  curtain,  sheathing  his  sabre,  and  dismissing  the  dan- 
ger from  his  mind  in  a  businesslike  way.) 

Man.  a  narrow  shave;  but  a  miss  is  as  good  as  a 
mile.  Dear  young  lady,  your  servant  until  death.  I 
wish  for  your  sake  I  had  joined  the  Bulgarian  army  in- 
stead of  the  Servian.     I  am  not  a  native  Servian. 

Raina  (haughtily).  No,  you  are  one  of  the  Aus- 
trians  who  set  the  Servians  on  to  rob  us  of  our  national 
liberty,  and  who  officer  their  army  for  them.  We  hate 
them ! 

Man.  Austrian !  not  I.  Don't  hate  me,  dear  young 
lady.  I  am  only  a  Swiss,  fighting  merely  as  a  profes- 
sional soldier.  I  joined  Servia  because  it  was  nearest 
to  me.     Be  generous :  you've  beaten  us  hollow. 

Raina.      Have  I  not  been  generous  ? 

Man.  Noble! — heroic!  But  I'm  not  saved  yet.  This 
particular  rush  will  soon  pass  through;  but  the  pursuit 
will  go  on  all  night  by  fits  and  starts.  I  must  take  my 
chance  to  get  off  during  a  quiet  interval.  You  don't 
mind  my  waiting  just  a  minute  or  two,  do  you? 

Raina.  Oh,  no:  I  am  sorry  you  will  have  to  go  into 
danger  again.  (Motioning  towards  ottoman.)  Won'f. 
you  sit —  (She  breaks  off  with  an  irrepressible  cry  of 
alarm  as  she  catches  sight  of  the  pistol.  The  man,  all' 
nerves,  shies  like  a  frightened  horse.) 


14  Arms  and  the  Man  a<jt  I 

Man  (irritably).  Don't  frighten  me  like  that.  What 
is  it? 

Raina.  Your  pistol !  It  was  staring  that  officer  in 
the  face  all  the  time.     What  an  escape ! 

Man  (vexed  at  being  unnecessarily  terrified).  Oh,  is 
that  all.^ 

Raina  (staring  at  Mm  rather  superciliously,  conceiv- 
ing a  poorer  and  poorer  opinion  of  him,  and  feeling  pro- 
portionately more  and  more  at  her  ease  with  him).  I  am 
sorry  I  frightened  you.  (She  takes  up  the  pistol  and 
hands  it  to  him.)  Pray  take  it  to  protect  yourself  against 
me. 

Man  (grinning  wearily  at  the  sarcasm  as  he  takes  the 
pistol).  No  use,  dear  young  lady:  there's  nothing  in 
it.  It's  not  loaded.  (He  makes  a  grimace  at  it,  and 
drops  it  disparagingly  into  his  revolver  case.) 

Raina.     Load  it  by  all  means. 

Man.  I've  no  ammunition.  What  use  are  cartridges 
in  battle?  I  always  carry  chocolate  instead;  and  I  fin- 
ished the  last  cake  of  that  yesterday. 

Raina  (outraged  in  her  most  cherished  ideals  of  man- 
hood). Chocolate!  Do  you  stuff  your  pockets  with 
sweets — like  a  schoolboy — even  in  the  field? 

Man.     Yes.     Isn't  it  contemptible? 

(Raina  stares  at  him,  unable  to  utter  her  feelings. 
Then  she  sails  away  scornfully  to  the  chest  of  drawers, 
and  returns  with  the  box  of  confectionery  in  her  hand.) 

Raina.  Allow  me.  I  am  sorry  I  have  eaten  them  all 
except  these.     (She  offers  him  the  box.) 

Man  (ravenously).  You're  an  angel!  (He  gobbles 
the  comfits.)  Creams  I  Delicious!  (He  looks  anxiously 
to  see  whether  there  are  any  more.  There  are  none. 
He  accepts  the  inevitable  with  pathetic  goodhumor,  and 
says,  with  grateful  emotion)  Bless  you,  dear  lady.  You 
can  always  tell  an  old  soldier  by  the  inside  of  his 
holsters  and  cartridge  boxes.  The  young  ones  carry  pis- 
tols  and   cartridges ;   the   old   ones,   grub.      Thank   you. 


Act  I  Arms  and  the  Man  15 

{He  hands  hack  the  box.  She  snatches  it  contemptuously 
from  him  and  throws  it  away.  This  impatient  action  is 
so  sudden  that  he  shies  again.)  Ugh!  Don't  do  things 
so  suddenly,  gracious  lady.  Don't  revenge  yourself  be- 
cause I  frightened  you  just  now. 

Raina  (superbly).  Frighten  me!  Do  you  know,  sir, 
that  though  I  am  only  a  woman,  I  think  I  am  at  heart 
as  brave  as  you. 

Man.  I  should  think  so.  You  haven't  been  under 
fire  for  three  days  as  I  have.  I  can  stand  two  days 
without  shewing  it  much;  but  no  man  can  stand  three 
days:  I'm  as  nervous  as  a  mouse.  (He  sits  down  on  the 
ottoman,  and  takes  his  head  in  his  hands.)  Would  you 
like  to  see  me  cry? 

Raina  (quickly).     No. 

Man.  If  you  would,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  scold  me 
just  as  if  I  were  a  little  boy  and  you  my  nurse.  If  I 
were  in  camp  now  they'd  play  all  sorts  of  tricks  on  me. 

Raina  (a  little  moved).  I'm  sorry.  I  won't  scold 
you.  (Touched  by  the  sympathy  in  her  tone,  he  raises 
his  head  and  looks  gratefully  at  her:  she  immediately 
draws  back  and  says  stiffly)  You  must  excuse  me:  our 
soldiers  are  not  like  that.  (She  moves  away  from  the 
ottoman.) 

Man.  Oh,  yes,  they  are.  There  are  only  two  sorts 
of  soldiers:  old  ones  and  young  ones.  I've  served  four- 
teen years:  half  of  your  fellows  never  smelt  powder 
before.  Why,  how  is  it  that  you've  just  beaten  us? 
Sheer  ignorance  of  the  art  of  war,  nothing  else.  (Indig- 
nantly.)     I  never  saw  anything  so  unprofessional. 

Raina  (ironically).  Oh,  was  it  unprofessional  to 
beat  you? 

Man.  Well,  come,  is  it  professional  to  throw  a  regi- 
ment of  cavalry  on  a  battery  of  machine  guns,  with  the 
dead  certainty  that  if  the  guns  go  off  not  a  horse  or 
man  will  ever  get  within  fifty  yards  of  the  fire?  I 
couldn't  believe  my  eyes  when  I  saw  it. 


16  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  1 

Raina  (^eagerly  turning  to  him,  as  all  her  enthusiasm 
and  her  dream  of  glory  rush  back  on  her).  Did  you  see 
the  great  cavalry  charge?  Oh,  tell  me  about  it.  De- 
scribe it  to  me. 

Man.     You  never  saw  a  cavalry  charge,  did  you? 

Raina.     How  could  I  ? 

Man.  Ah,  perhaps  not — of  course.  Well,  it's  a 
funny  sight.  It's  like  slinging  a  handful  of  peas  against 
a  window  pane :  first  one  comes ;  then  two  or  three  close 
behind  him ;  and  then  all  the  rest  in  a  lump. 

Raina  (her  eyes  dilating  as  she  raises  her  clasped 
hands  ecstatically).  Yes,  first  One! — the  bravest  of  the 
brave ! 

Man  (prosaically).  Hm !  you  should  see  the  poor 
devil  pulling  at  his  horse. 

Raina.     Why  should  he  pull  at  his  horse? 

Man  (^impatient  of  so  stupid  a  question).  It's  run- 
ning away  with  him,  of  course :  do  you  suppose  the  fellow 
wants  to  get  there  before  the  others  and  be  killed?  Then 
they  all  come.  You  can  tell  the  young  ones  by  their 
wildness  and  their  slashing.  The  old  ones  come  bunched 
up  under  the  number  one  guard:  they  know  that  they 
are  mere  projectiles,  and  that  it's  no  use  trying  to  fight. 
The  wounds  are  mostly  broken  knees,  from  the  horses 
cannoning  together. 

Raina.  Ugh !  But  I  don't  believe  the  first  man  is  a 
coward.     I  believe  he  is  a  hero ! 

Man  (goodhumoredly) .  That's  what  you'd  have  saij 
if  you'd  seen  the  first  man  in  the  charge  to-day. 

Raina  (breathless).  Ah,  I  knew  it!  Tell  me — tell 
me  about  him. 

Man.  He  did  it  like  an  operatic  tenor — a  regular 
handsome  fellow,  with  flashing  eyes  and  lovely  mous- 
tache, shouting  a  war-cry  and  charging  like  Don  Quixote 
at  the  windmills.  We  nearly  burst  with  laughter  at  him ; 
but  when  the  sergeant  ran  up  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and 
told  us  they'd  sent  us  the  wrong  cartridges,  and  that  we 


4cT  I  Arms  and  the  Man  17 

couldn't  fire  a  shot  for  the  next  ten  minutes,  we  laughed 
at  the  other  side  of  our  mouths.  I  never  felt  so  sick  in 
my  life,  though  I've  been  in  one  or  two  very  tight  places. 
And  I  hadn't  even  a  revolver  cartridge — nothing  but 
chocolate.  We'd  no  bayonets — nothing.  Of  course,  they 
just  cut  us  to  bits.  And  there  was  Don  Quixote  flourish- 
ing like  a  drum  major,  thinking  he'd  done  the  cleverest 
thing  ever  kno-vvn,  whereas  he  ought  to  be  courtmartialled 
for  it.  Of  all  the  fools  ever  let  loose  on  a  field  of  battle, 
that  man  must  be  the  very  maddest.  He  and  his  regi- 
ment simply  committed  suicide — only  the  pistol  missed 
fire,  that's  all. 

Rain  A  {deeply  rvounded,  hut  steadfastly  loyal  to  her 
ideals).  Indeed!  Would  you  know  him  again  if  you 
saw  him.'' 

Man.  Shall  I  ever  forget  him.  (She  again  goes  to 
the  chest  of  drawers.  He  watches  her  with  a  vague  hope 
that  she  may  have  something  else  for  him  to  eat.  She 
takes  the  portrait  from  its  stand  and  brings  it  to  him.) 

Raina.  That  is  a  photograph  of  the  gentleman — the 
patriot  and  hero — to  whom  I  am  betrothed. 

Man  (looking  at  it).  I'm  really  very  sorry.  (Look- 
ing at  her.)  Was  it  fair  to  lead  me  on.''  (He  looks  at 
the  portrait  again.)  Yes:  that's  him:  not  a  doubt  of  it. 
(He  stifles  a  laugh.) 

Raina   (quickly).     Why  do  you  laugh? 

Man  (shamefacedly,  but  still  greatly  tickled).  I 
didn't  laugh,  I  assure  you.  At  least  I  didn't  mean  to. 
But  when  I  think  of  him  charging  the  windmills  and 
thinking  he  was  doing  the  finest  thing — (chokes  with 
suppressed  laughter). 

Raina  (sternly).     Give  me  back  the  portrait,  sir. 

Man  (with  sincere  remorse).  Of  course.  Certainly. 
I'm  really  very  sorry.  (She  deliberately  kisses  it,  and 
looks  him  straight  in  the  face,  before  returning  to  the 
chest  of  drawers  to  replace  it.  He  follows  her,  apologiz- 
ing.)    Perhaps  I'm  quite  wrong,  you  know:  no  doubt  I 


18  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  I 

am.  Most  likely  he  had  got  wind  of  the  cartridge  busi- 
ness somehow,  and  knew  it  was  a  safe  job. 

Raina.  That  is  to  say,  he  was  a  pretender  and  a 
coward !     You  did  not  dare  say  that  before. 

Man  {with  a  comic  gesture  of  despair).  It's  no  use, 
dear  lady:  I  can't  make  you  see  it  from  the  professional 
point  of  view.  (As  he  turns  away  to  get  hack  to  the 
ottoman,  the  firing  begins  again  in  the  distance.) 

Raina  {sternly,  as  she  sees  him  listening  to  the  shots). 
So  much  the  better  for  you. 

Man   {turning).     How? 

Raina.  You  are  my  enemy ;  and  you  are  at  my  mercy. 
What  would  I  do  if  I  were  a  professional  soldier? 

Man.  Ah,  true,  dear  young  lady :  you're  always  right. 
I  know  how  good  you  have  been  to  me:  to  my  last  hour 
I  shall  remember  those  three  chocolate  creams.  It  was 
unsoldierly;  but  it  was  angelic. 

Raina  (coldly).  Thank  you.  And  now  I  will  do  a 
soldierly  thing.  You  cannot  stay  here  after  what  you 
have  just  said  about  my  future  husband;  but  I  will  go 
out  on  the  balcony  and  see  whether  it  is  safe  for  you 
to  climb  down  into  the  street.     (She  turns  to  the  window.) 

Man  (changing  countenance).  Down  that  waterpipe  ! 
Stop  !  Wait !  I  can't !  I  daren't !  The  very  thought  of 
it  makes  me  giddy.  I  came  up  it  fast  enough  with  death 
behind  me.  But  to  face  it  now  in  cold  blood! — (He 
sinks  on  the  ottoman.)  It's  no  use:  I  give  up:  I'm 
beaten.  Give  the  alarm.  (He  drops  his  head  in  his 
hands  in  the  deepest  dejection.) 

Raina  (disarmed  by  pity).  Come,  don't  be  disheart- 
ened. (She  stoops  over  him  almost  maternally :  he  shakes 
his  head.)  Oh,  you  are  a  very  poor  soldier — a  chocolate 
cream  soldier.  Come,  cheer  up:  it  takes  less  courage  to 
climb  down  than  to  face  capture — remember  that. 

Man  (dreamily,  lulled  by  her  voice).  No,  capture 
only  means  death;  and  death  is  sleep — oh,  sleep,  sleep, 
sleep,  undisturbed  sleep !    Climbing  down  the  pipe  means 


Act  I  Arms  and  the  Man  19 

doing  something — exerting  myself — thinking  !  Death 
ten  times  over  first. 

Raina  (^softly  and  wonderingly,  catching  the  rhythm 
of  his   weariness).     Are  you  so   sleepy  as  that? 

Man.  I've  not  had  two  hours  undisturbed  sleep  since 
the  war  began.  I'm  on  the  staff:  you  don't  know  what 
that  means.  I  haven't  closed  my  eyes  for  thirty-six 
hours. 

Raina  {desperately).     But  what  am  I  to  do  with  you, 

Man  (staggering  up).  Of  course  I  must  do  some- 
thing. (He  shakes  himself;  pulls  himself  together;  and 
speaks  with  rallied  vigour  and  courage.)  You  see,  sleep 
or  no  sleep,  hunger  or  no  hunger,  tired  or  not  tired,  you 
can  always  do  a  thing  when  you  know  it  must  be  done. 
Well,  that  pipe  must  be  got  down — (He  hits  himself 
on  the  chest,  and  adds) — Do  you  hear  that,  you  chocolate 
cream  soldier.''      (He  turns  to  the  window.) 

Raina  (anxiously) .     But  if  you  fall? 

Man.  I  shall  sleep  as  if  the  stones  were  a  feather  bed. 
Good-bye.  (He  makes  boldly  for  the  window,  and  his 
hand  is  on  the  shutter  when  there  is  a  terrible  burst  of 
firing  in  the  street  beneath.) 

Raina  (rushing  to  him).  Stop!  (She  catches  him  by 
the  shoulder,  and  turns  him  quite  round.)  They'll  kill 
you. 

Man  (coolly,  but  attentively).  Never  mind:  this  sort 
of  thing  is  all  in  my  day's  work.  I'm  bound  to  take  my 
chance.  (Decisively.)  Now  do  what  I  tell  you.  Put 
out  the  candles,  so  that  they  shan't  see  the  light  when  I 
open  the  shutters.  And  keep  away  from  the  window, 
whatever  you  do.  If  they  see  me,  they're  sure  to  have  a 
shot  at  me. 

Raina  (clinging  to  him).  They're  sure  to  see  you: 
it's  bright  moonlight.  I'll  save  you — oh,  how  can  you  be 
so  indifferent?     You  want  me  to  save  you,  don't  you? 

Man.  I  really  don't  want  to  be  troublesome.  (She 
shakes  him  in  her  impatience.)      I   am  not  indifferent. 


20  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  I 

dear  young  lady,  I  assure  you.  But  how  is  it  to  be 
done  ? 

Raina.  Come  away  from  the  window — please.  (She 
coaxes  him  back  to  the  middle  of  the  room.  He  submits 
humbly.  She  releases  him,  and  addresses  him  patroniz- 
ingly.) Now  listen.  You  must  trust  to  our  hospitality. 
You  do  not  yet  know  in  whose  house  you  are.  I  am  a 
PetkofF. 

Man.     What's  that? 

Raina  {rather  indignantly).  I  mean  that  I  belong  to 
the  family  of  the  PetkofFs,  the  richest  and  best  known 
in  our  country. 

Man.  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  I  beg  your  pardon.  The 
Petkoifs,  to  be  sure.     How  stupid  of  me! 

Raina.  You  know  vou  never  heard  of  them  until  this 
minute.     How  can  you  stoop  to  pretend.'' 

Man.  Forgive  me:  I'm  too  tired  to  think;  and  the 
change  of  subj  ect  was  too  much  for  me.     Don't  scold  me. 

Raina.  I  forgot.  It  might  make  you  cry.  {He  nods, 
quite  seriously.  She  pouts  and  then  resumes  her  patron- 
izing tone.)  I  must  tell  you  that  my  father  holds  the 
highest  command  of  any  Bulgarian  in  our  army.  He  is 
{proudly)   a  Major. 

Man  {pretending  to  be  deeply  impressed).  A  Major! 
Bless  me!     Think  of  that! 

Raina.  You  shewed  great  ignorance  in  thinking  that 
it  was  necessary  to  climb  up  to  the  balcony,  because  ours 
is  the  only  private  house  that  has  two  rows  of  windows. 
There  is  a  flight  of  stairs  inside  to  get  up  and  down  by. 

Man.  Stairs  !  How  grand !  You  live  in  great  luxury 
indeed,  dear  young  lady. 

Raina.     Do  you  know  what  a  library  is."^ 

Man.     a  library?     A  roomful  of  books. 

Raina.     Yes,  we  have  one,  the  only  one  in  Bulgaria. 

Man.  Actually  a  real  library!  I  should  like  to  see 
that. 

Raina  (affectedly).     I  tell  you  these  things  to  shew 


Act  I  Arms  and  the  Man  21 

you  that  you  are  not  in  the  house  of  ignorant  country 
folk  who  would  kill  you  the  moment  they  saw  your  Ser- 
vian uniform,  but  among  civilized  people.  We  go  to 
Bucharest  every  year  for  the  opera  season;  and  I  have 
spent  a  whole  month  in  Vienna. 

Man.  I  saw  that,  dear  young  lady.  I  saw  at  once 
that  you  knew  the  world. 

Raina.     Have  you  ever  seen  the  opera  of  Ernani? 

Man.  Is  that  the  one  with  the  devil  in  it  in  red  velvet, 
and  a  soldier's  chorus? 

Raina  (contemptuously).     No! 

Man  (stifling  a  heavy  sigh  of  weariness).  Then  I 
don't  know  it. 

Raina.  I  thouglit  you  might  have  remembered  the 
great  scene  where  Ernani,  flying  from  his  foes  just  as 
you  are  to-night,  takes  refuge  in  the  castle  of  his  bitter- 
est enemy,  an  old  Castilian  noble.  The  noble  refuses  to 
give  him  up.     His  guest  is  sacred  to  him. 

Man  (quickly  waking  up  a  little).  Have  your  people 
got  that  notion .'' 

Raina  (with  dignity).  My  mother  and  I  can  under- 
stand that  notion,  as  you  call  it.  And  if  instead  of 
threatening  me  with  your  pistol  as  you  did,  you  had 
simply  thrown  yourself  as  a  fugitive  on  our  hospitality, 
you  would  have  been  as  safe  as  in  your  father's  house. 

Man.     Quite  sure? 

Raina  (turning  her  back  on  him  in  disgust).  Oh,  it 
is  useless  to  try  and  make  you  understand. 

Man.  Don't  be  angry :  you  see  how  awkward  it  would 
be  for  me  if  there  was  any  mistake.  My  father  is  a  very 
hospitable  man:  he  keeps  six  hotels;  but  I  couldn't  trust 
him  as  far  as  that.     ^\Tiat  about  your  father? 

Raina.  He  is  away  at  Slivnitza  fighting  for  his  coun- 
try. I  answer  for  your  safety.  There  is  my  hand  in 
pledge  of  it.  Will  that  reassure  you?  (She  offers  him 
her  hand.) 

Man  (looking  dubiously  at  his  own  hand).     Better  not 


22  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  I 

touch  my  hand,  dear  young  lady.  I  must  have  a  wash 
first. 

Rain  A  (touched).  That  is  very  nice  of  you.  I  see 
that  you  are  a  gentleman. 

Man  (puzzled).    Eh? 

Raina.  You  must  not  think  I  am  surprised.  Bulgar- 
ians of  really  good  standing — people  in  our  position — 
wash  their  hands  nearly  every  day.  But  I  appreciate 
your  delicacy.  You  may  take  my  hand.  (She  offers  it 
again. ) 

Man  (kissing  it  with  his  hands  behind  his  back). 
Thanks,  gracious  young  lady:  I  feel  safe  at  last.  And 
now  would  you  mind  breaking  the  news  to  your  mother? 
I  had  better  not  stay  here  secretly  longer  than  is  nec- 
essary. 

Raina.  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  keep  perfectly 
still  whilst  I  am  away. 

Man.     Certainly.     (He  sits  down  on  the  ottoman.) 

(Raina  goes  to  the  bed  and  wraps  herself  in  the  fur 
cloak.  His  eyes  close.  She  goes  to  the  door,  but  on 
turning  for  a  last  look  at  him,  sees  that  he  is  dropping 
off  to  sleep.) 

Raina  (at  the  door).  You  are  not  going  asleep,  are 
you?  (He  murmurs  inarticulately :  she  runs  to  him  and 
shakes  him.)  Do  you  hear?  Wake  up:  you  are  falling 
asleep. 

Man.  Eh?  Falling  aslee — ?  Oh,  no,  not  the  least  in 
the  world:  I  was  only  thinking.  It's  all  right:  I'm  wide 
awake. 

Raina  (severely).  Will  you  please  stand  up  while  I 
am  away.     (He  rises  reluctantly.)     All  the  time,  mind. 

Man  (standing  unsteadily).  Certainly — certainly: 
you  may  depend  on  me. 

(Raina  looks  doubtfully  at  him.  He  smiles  foolishly. 
She  goes  reluctantly,  turning  again  at  the  door,  and 
almost  catching  him  in  the  act  of  yawning.  She  goes 
out.) 


Act  1  Arms  and  tlie  Man  23 

Man  (drowsily).  Sleep,  sleep,  sleep,  sleep,  slee — 
(The  words  trail  off  into  a  murmur.  He  wahes  again 
with  a  shock  on  the  point  of  falling.)  Where  am  I? 
That's  what  I  want  to  know:  where  am  I?  Must  keep 
awake.  Nothing  keeps  me  awake  except  danger — re- 
member that — (intently)  danger,  danger,  danger,  dan — 
WTiere's  danger?  Must  find  it.  (He  starts  off  vaguely 
around  the  room  in  search  of  it.)  What  am  I  look- 
ing for?  Sleep — danger — don't  know.  (He  stumbles 
against  the  bed.)  Ah,  yes:  now  I  know.  All  right  now. 
I'm  to  go  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep — be  sure  not  to  sleep — • 
because  of  danger.  Not  to  lie  down,  either,  only  sit 
down.  (He  sits  on  the  bed.  A  blissful  expression 
comes  into  his  face. )  Ah !  (  With  a  happy  sigh  he  sinks 
back  at  full  length;  lifts  his  boots  into  the  bed  with  a 
final  effort;  and  falls  fast  asleep  instantly.) 

(Catherine  comes  in,  followed  by  Raina.) 

Raina  (looking  at  the  ottoman).  He's  gone!  I  left 
him  here. 

Catherine.  Here !  Then  he  must  have  climbed  down 
from  the 

"Rki^x  (seeing  him).     Oh!     (She  points.) 

Catherine  (scandalized).  Well!  (She  strides  to  the 
left  side  of  the  bed,  Raina  following  and  standing  oppo- 
site her  on  the  right.)      He's  fast  asleep.     The  brute! 

Raina  (anxiously).     Sh ! 

Catherine  (shaking  him).  Sir!  (Shaking  him 
again,  harder.)  Sir!!  (Vehemently  shaking  very  hard.) 
Sir!!! 

Raina  (catching  her  arm).  Don't,  mamma:  the  poor 
dear  is  worn  out.     Let  him  sleep. 

Catherine  (letting  him  go  and  turning  amazed  to 
Raina).  The  poor  dear!  Raina!!!  (She  looks  sternly 
at  her  daughter.     The  man  sleeps  profoundly.) 

END    OF    ACT    I. 


ACT    II 

The  sixth  of  March,  1886.  In  the  garden  of  Major 
Petkoff's  house.  It  is  a  fine  spring  morning;  and  the 
garden  looks  fresh  and  pretty.  Beyond  the  paling  the 
tops  of  a  couple  of  minarets  can  be  seen,  shewing  that 
there  is  a  valley  there,  with  the  little  town  in  it.  A  few 
miles  further  the  Balkan  mountains  rise  and  shut  in  the 
view.  Within  the  garden  the  side  of  the  house  is  seen 
on  the  right,  with  a  garden  door  reached  by  a  little  flight 
of  steps.  On  the  left  the  stable  yard,  with  its  gateway, 
encroaches  on  the  garden.  There  are  fruit  bushes  along 
the  paling  and  house,  covered  with  washing  hung  out  to 
dry.  A  path  rtins  by  the  house,  and  rises  by  two  steps 
at  the  corner  where  it  turns  out  of  the  sight  along  the 
front.  In  the  middle  a  small  table,  with  two  bent  wood 
chairs  at  it,  is  laid  for  breakfast  with  Turkish  coffee 
pot,  cups,  rolls,  etc.;  but  the  cups  have  been  used  and 
the  bread  broken.  There  is  a  wooden  garden  seat 
against  the  wall  on  the  left. 

Louka,  smoking  a  cigaret,  is  standing  between  the 
table  and  the  house,  turning  her  back  with  angry  dis- 
dain on  a  man-servant  who  is  lecturing  her.  He  is  a 
middle-aged  man  of  cool  temperament  and  low  but  clear 
and  keen  intelligence,  with  the  complacency  of  the  ser- 
vant who  values  himself  on  his  rank  in  servility,  and  the 
imperturbability  of  the  accurate  calculator  who  has  no 
illusions.  He  wears  a  white  Bidgarian  costume  jacket 
with  decorated  border,  sash,  wide  knickerbockers,  and 
decorated  gaiters.  His  head  is  shaved  up  to  the  crown, 
giving  him  a  high  Japanese  forehead.  His  name  is 
Nicola. 

24 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  Man  25 

Nicola.  Be  warned  in  time,  Louka:  mend  your  man- 
ners. I  know  the  mistress.  She  is  so  grand  that  she 
never  dreams  that  any  servant  could  dare  to  be  dis- 
respectful to  her;  but  if  she  once  suspects  that  you  are 
defying  her,  out  you  go. 

Louka.  I  do  defy  her.  I  will  defy  her.  What  do  I 
care  for  her? 

Nicola.  If  you  quarrel  with  the  family,  I  never  can 
marry  you.     It's  the  same  as  if  you  quarrelled  with  me ! 

Louka.     You  take  her  part  against  me,  do  you.'' 

Nicola  {sedately).  I  shall  always  be  dependent  on 
the  good  will  of  the  family.  When  I  leave  their  service 
and  start  a  shop  in  Sofea,  their  custom  will  be  half  my 
capital:  their  bad  word  would  ruin  me. 

Louka.  You  have  no  spirit.  I  should  like  to  see  them 
dare  say  a  word  against  me ! 

Nicola  {pityingly).  I  should  have  expected  more 
sense  from  you,  Louka.     But  you're  young,  you're  young ! 

Louka.  Yes;  and  you  like  me  the  better  for  it,  don't 
you?  But  I  know  some  family  secrets  they  wouldn't 
care  to  have  told,  young  as  I  am.  Let  them  quarrel  with 
me  if  they  dare ! 

Nicola  {with  compassionate  superiority).  Do  you 
know  what  they  would  do  if  they  heard  you  talk  like 
that? 

Louka.     ^Vhat  could  they  do? 

Nicola.  Discharge  you  for  untruthfulness.  Who 
would  believe  any  stories  you  told  after  that?  Who 
would  give  you  another  situation?  Who  in  this  house 
would  dare  be  seen  speaking  to  you  ever  again?  How 
long  would  your  father  be  left  on  his  little  farm?  {She 
impatiently  throws  away  the  end  of  her  cigaret,  and 
stamps  on  it.)  Child,  you  don't  know  the  power  such 
high  people  have  over  the  like  of  you  and  me  when  we 
try  to  rise  out  of  our  poverty  against  them.  {He  goes 
close  to  her  and  lowers  his  voice.)  Look  at  me,  ten  years 
in  their  service.     Do  you  think  I  know  no  secrets?     I 


26  Arms  and  the  JMjui  Act  II 

know  things  about  the  mistress  that  she  wouldn't  have 
the  master  know  for  a  thousand  levas.  I  know  things 
about  him  that  she  wouldn't  let  him  hear  the  last  of  for 
six  months  if  I  blabbed  them  to  her.  I  know  things 
about  Raina  that  would  break  off  her  match  with  Ser- 
gius  if 

LouKA  {turning  on  Mm  quickly).  How  do  you  know? 
I  never  told  you ! 

Nicola  (^opening  his  eyes  cunningly).  So  that's  your 
little  secret,  is  it?  I  thought  it  might  be  something  like 
that.  Well,  you  take  my  advice,  and  be  respectful;  and 
make  the  mistress  feel  that  no  matter  what  you  know  or 
don't  know,  they  can  depend  on  you  to  hold  your  tongue 
and  serve  the  family  faithfully.  That's  what  they  like; 
and  that's  how  you'll  make  most  out  of  them. 

LouKA  (with  searching  scorn).  You  have  the  soul  of 
a  servant,  Nicola. 

Nicola  (complacently) .  Yes:  that's  the  secret  of  suc- 
cess in  service. 

(A  loud  knocking  with  a  whip  handle  on  a  wooden 
door,  outside  on  the  left,  is  heard.) 

Male  Voice  Outside.     Hollo !    Hollo  there !    Nicola ! 

LouKA.     ]\Iaster !  back  from  the  war  ! 

Nicola  (quickly).  My  word  for  it,  Louka,  the  war's 
over.  Off  with  you  and  get  some  fresh  coffee.  (He  runs 
out  into  the  stable  yard.) 

LouKA  (as  she  puts  the  coffee  pot  and  the  cups  upon 
the  tray,  and  carries  it  into  the  house).  You'll  never  put 
the  soul  of  a  servant  into  me. 

(Major  Petkoff  comes  from  the  stable  yard,  followed 
by  Nicola.  He  is  a  cheerful,  excitable,  insignificant,  un- 
polished man  of  about  50,  naturally  unambitious  except 
as  to  his  income  and  his  importance  in  local  society,  but 
just  now  greatly  pleased  with  the  military  rank  which 
the  war  has  thrust  on  him  as  a  man  of  consequence  in  his 
town.  The  fever  of  plucky  patriotism  which  the  Servian 
attack    roused    in    all    the   Bulgarians    has    pulled    him 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  Man  27 

through  the  war;  but  he  is  obviously  glad  to  be  home 
again.) 

Petkoff  (pointing  to  the  table  with  his  whip).  Break- 
fast out  here,  eh  ? 

Nicola.  Yes,  sir.  The  mistress  and  Miss  Raina  have 
just  gone  in. 

Petkoff  (sitting  down  and  talcing  a  roll).  Go  in  and 
say  I've  come;  and  get  me  some  fresh  coffee. 

Nicola.  It's  coming,  sir.  (He  goes  to  the  house  door. 
Louha,  with  fresh  coffee,  a  clean  cup,  and  a  brandy  bot- 
tle on  her  tray  meets  him.)     Have  you  told  the  mistress.'* 

LouKA.     Yes:  she's  coming. 

(Nicola  goes  into  the  house.  Louha  brings  the  coffee 
to  the  table.) 

Petkoff.  Well,  the  Servians  haven't  run  away  with 
you,  have  they.'' 

LouKA.     No,  sir. 

Petkoff.  That's  right.  Have  you  brought  me  some 
cognac .'' 

LouKA  (putting  the  bottle  on  the  table).     Here,  sir. 

Petkoff.  That's  right.  (He  pours  some  into  his 
coffee.) 

(Catherine  who  has  at  this  early  hour  made  only  a 
very  perfunctory  toilet,  and  wears  a  Bulgarian  apron 
over  a  once  brilliant,  but  now  half  worn  out  red  dressing 
gown,  and  a  colored  handkerchief  tied  over  her  thick 
black  hair,  with  Turkish  slippers  on  her  bare  feet,  comes 
from  the  house,  looking  astonishingly  handsome  and 
stately  under  all  the  circumstances.  Louka  goes  into  the 
house.) 

Catherine.  My  dear  Paul,  what  a  surprise  for  us. 
(She  stoops  over  the  back  of  his  chair  to  kiss  him.)  Have 
they  brought  you  fresh  coffee? 

Petkoff.  Yes,  Louka's  been  looking  after  me.  The 
war's  over.  The  treaty  was  signed  three  days  ago  at 
Bucharest;  and  the  decree  for  our  army  to  demobilize 
was  issued  yesterday. 


28  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  II 

Catherine  (springing  erect,  with  flashing  eyes).  The 
war  over !  Paul :  have  you  let  the  Austrians  force  you  to 
make  peace? 

Petkoff  (submissively).  My  dear:  they  didn't  con- 
sult me.  What  could  /do?  (She  sits  down  and  turns 
away  from  him.)  But  of  course  we  saw  to  it  that  the 
treaty  was  an  honorable  one.     It  declares  peace 

Catherine  (outraged).     Peace! 

Petkoff  (appeasing  her).  — but  not  friendly  rela- 
tions: remember  that.  They  wanted  to  put  that  in;  but 
I  insisted  on  its  being  struck  out.  What  more  could 
I  do? 

Catherine.  You  could  have  annexed  Servia  and  made 
Prince  Alexander  Emperor  of  the  Balkans.  That's  what 
I  would  have  done. 

Petkoff.  I  don't  doubt  it  in  the  least,  my  dear.  But 
I  should  have  had  to  subdue  the  whole  Austrian  Empire 
first;  and  that  would  have  kept  me  too  long  away  from 
you.     I  missed  you  greatly. 

Catherine  (relenting).  Ah!  (Stretches  her  hand 
affectionately  across  the  table  to  squeeze  his.) 

Petkoff.     And  how  have  you  been,  my  dear? 

Catherine.     Oh,  my  usual  sore  throats,  that's  all. 

Petkoff  (with  conviction).  That  comes  from  wash- 
ing your  neck  every  day.     I've  often  told  you  so. 

Catherine.     Nonsense,  Paul ! 

Petkoff  (over  his  coffee  and  cigaret).  I  don't  believe 
in  going  too  far  with  these  modern  customs.  All  this 
washing  can't  be  good  for  the  health:  it's  not  natural. 
There  was  an  Englishman  at  Phillipopolis  who  used  to 
wet  himself  all  over  with  cold  water  every  morning  when 
he  got  up.  Disgusting!  It  all  comes  from  the  English: 
theii  climate  makes  them  so  dirty  that  they  have  to  be 
perpetually  washing  themselves.  Look  at  my  father: 
he  never  had  a  bath  in  his  life;  and  he  lived  to  be 
ninety-eight,  the  healthiest  man  in  Bulgaria.  I  don't 
mind  a  good  wash  once  a  week  to  keep  up  my  position; 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  Man  29 

but  once  a  day  is  carrying  the  thing  to  a  ridiculous 
extreme. 

Catherine.  You  are  a  barbarian  at  heart  still,  Paul. 
I  hope  you  behaved  yourself  before  all  those  Russian 
officers. 

Petkoff.  I  did  my  best.  I  took  care  to  let  them 
know  that  we  had  a  library. 

Catherine.  Ah;  but  you  didn't  tell  them  that  we 
have  an  electric  bell  in  it  ?    I  have  had  one  put  up. 

Petkoff.     What's  an  electric  bell? 

Catherine.  You  touch  a  button ;  something  tinkles 
in  the  kitchen ;  and  then  Nicola  comes  up. 

Petkoff.     Why  not  shout  for  him? 

Catherine.  Civilized  people  never  shout  for  their 
servants.     I've  learnt  that  while  you  were  away. 

Petkoff.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  something  I've  learnt, 
too.  Civilized  people  don't  hang  out  their  washing  to 
dry  where  visitors  can  see  it;  so  you'd  better  have  all 
that  {indicating  the  clothes  on  the  bushes)  put  some- 
where else. 

Catherine.  Oh,  that's  absurd,  Paul:  I  don't  believe 
really  refined  people  notice  such  things. 

(Someone  is  heard  knocking  at  the  stable  gates.) 

Petkoff.  There's  Sergius.  {Shouting.)  Hollo, 
Nicola ! 

Catherine.    Oh,  don't  shout,  Paul :  it  really  isn't  nice. 

Petkoff.  Bosh!  {He  shouts  louder  than  before.) 
Nicola ! 

Nicola  {appearing  at  the  house  door).     Yes,  sir. 

Petkoff.  If  that  is  Major  Saranoff,  bring  him  round 
this  way.  {He  pronounces  the  name  with  the  stress  on 
the  second  syllable — Sarah  noff.) 

Nicola.     Yes,  sir.     {He  goes  into  the  stable  yard.) 

Petkoff.  You  must  talk  to  him,  my  dear,  until  Raina 
takes  him  off  our  hands.  He  bores  my  life  out  about  our 
not  promoting  him — over  my  head,  mind  you. 

Catherine.     He  certainly  ought  to  be  promoted  when 


30  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  II 

he  marries  Raina.  Besides,  the  country  should  insist 
on  having  at  least  one  native  general. 

Petkoff.  Yes,  so  that  he  could  throw  away  whole 
brigades  instead  of  regiments.  It's  no  use,  my  dear:  he 
has  not  the  slightest  chance  of  promotion  until  we  are 
quite  sure  that  the  peace  will  be  a  lasting  one. 

Nicola  (at  the  gate,  announcing).  Major  Sergius 
SaranofF !  (He  goes  into  the  house  and  returns  presently 
Tvith  a  third  chair,  which  he  places  at  the  table.  He  then 
withdraws.) 

(Major  Sergius  Saranoff,  the  original  of  the  portrait 
in  Raina' s  room,  is  a  tall,  romantically  handsome  man, 
with  the  physical  hardihood,  the  high  spirit,  and  the  sus- 
ceptible imagination  of  an  untamed  mountaineer  chief- 
tain. But  his  remarhable  personal  distinction  is  of  a 
characteristically  civilized  type.  The  ridges  of  his  eye- 
brows, curving  with  a  ram's-horn  twist  round  the  marked 
projections  at  the  outer  corners,  his  jealously  observant 
eye,  his  nose,  thin,  keen,  and  apprehensive  in  spite  of 
the  pugnacious  high  bridge  and  large  nostril,  his  assertive 
chin,  would  not  be  out  of  place  in  a  Paris  salon.  In 
short,  the  clever,  imaginative  barbarian  has  an  acute  criti- 
cal facidty  which  has  been  thrown  into  intense  activity 
by  the  arrival  of  western  civilization  in  the  Balkans ;  and 
the  residt  is  precisely  what  the  advent  of  nineteenth  cen- 
tury thought  first  produced  in  England:  to-wit,  Byron- 
ism.  By  his  brooding  on  the  perpetual  failure,  not  only 
of  others,  but  of  himself,  to  live  up  to  his  imaginative 
ideals,  his  consequent  cynical  scorn  for  humanity,  the 
jejune  credulity  as  to  the  absolute  validity  of  his  ideals 
and  the  unworthiness  of  the  world  in  disregarding  them, 
his  wincings  and  mockeries  under  the  sting  of  the  petty 
disillusions  which  every  hour  spent  among  men  brings 
to  his  infallibly  quick  observation,  he  has  acquired  the 
half  tragic,  half  ironic  air,  the  mysterious  moodiness,  the 
suggestion  of  a  strange  and  terrible  history  that  has  left 
him  nothing  but  undying  remorse,  by  which  Childe  Har- 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  Man  31 

old  fascinated  the  grandmothers  of  his  English  contem- 
poraries. Altogether  it  is  clear  that  here  or  nowhere  is 
Raina's  ideal  hero.  Catherine  is  hardly  less  enthusiastic, 
and  much  less  reserved  in  sherving  her  enthusiasm.  As 
he  enters  from  the  stable  gate,  she  rises  effusively  to 
greet  him.  Petkoff  is  distinctly  less  disposed  to  make  a 
fuss  about  him.) 

Petkoff.  Here  already,  Sergius.  Glad  to  see 
you! 

Catherine.  My  dear  Sergius !  (She  holds  out  both 
her  hands.) 

Sergius  (kissing  them  with  scrupulous  gallantry). 
My  dear  mother,  if  I  may  call  you  so. 

Petkoff  (drily).  Mother-in-law,  Sergius;  mother-in- 
law!     Sit  down,  and  have  some  coffee. 

Sergius.  Thank  you,  none  for  me.  (He  gets  arvay 
from  the  table  with  a  certain  distaste  for  Petkoff's  en- 
joyment of  it,  and  posts  himself  with  conscious  grace 
against  the  rail  of  the  steps  leading  to  the  house.) 

Catherine.  You  look  superb — splendid.  The  cam- 
paign has  improved  you.  Everybody  here  is  mad  about 
you.  We  were  all  wild  with  enthusiasm  about  that  mag- 
nificent cavalry  charge. 

Sergius  (with  grave  irony).  Madam:  it  was  the  cradle 
and  the  grave  of  my  military  reputation. 

Catherine.     How  so? 

Sergius.  I  won  the  battle  the  wrong  way  when  our 
worthy  Russian  generals  were  losing  it  the  right  way. 
That  upset  their  plans,  and  wounded  their  self-esteem. 
Two  of  their  colonels  got  their  regiments  driven  back  on 
the  correct  principles  of  scientific  warfare.  Two  major- 
generals  got  killed  strictly  according  to  military  eti- 
quette. Those  two  colonels  are  now  major-generals;  and 
I  am  still  a  simple  major. 

Catherine.  You  shall  not  remain  so,  Sergius.  The 
women  are  on  your  side;  and  they  will  see  that  justice 
is  done  you. 


32  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  II 

Sergius.  It  is  too  late.  I  have  only  waited  for  the 
peace  to  send  in  my  resignation. 

Petkoff  {dropping  his  cup  in  his  amazement).  Your 
resignation ! 

Catherine.     Oh,  you  must  withdraw  it ! 

Sergius  (with  resolute,  measured  emphasis,  folding 
his  arms).     I  never  withdraw! 

Petkoff  (vexed).  Now  who  could  have  supposed  you 
were  going  to  do  such  a  thing  .^ 

Sergius  (with  fre).  Everyone  that  knew  me.  But 
enough  of  myself  and  my  affairs.  How  is  Raina;  and 
where  is  Raina  .^ 

Raina  (suddenly  coming  round  the  corner  of  the  house 
and  standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps  in  the  path).  Raina 
is  here.  (She  makes  a  charming  picture  as  they  all  turn 
to  look  at  her.  She  wears  an  underdress  of  pale  green 
silk,  draped  with  an  overdress  of  thin  ecru  canvas  em- 
broidered with  gold.  On  her  head  she  wears  a  pretty 
Phrygian  cap  of  gold  tinsel.  Sergius,  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  pleasure,  goes  impulsively  to  meet  her.  She 
stretches  out  her  hand:  he  drops  chivalrously  on  one  knee 
and  kisses  it.) 

Petkoff  (aside  to  Catherine,  beaming  with  parental 
pride).  Pretty,  isn't  it.''  She  always  appears  at  the 
right  moment. 

Catherine  (impatiently).  Yes:  she  listens  for  it.  It 
is  an  abominable  habit. 

(Sergius  leads  Raina  forward  with  splendid  gallantry, 
as  if  she  were  a  queen.  When  they  come  to  the  table, 
she  turns  to  him  with  a  bend  of  the  head;  he  bows;  and 
thus  they  separate,  he  coming  to  his  place,  and  she  going 
behind  her  father's  chair.) 

Raina  (stooping  and  kissing  her  father).  Dear 
father  !     Welcome  home  ! 

Petkoff  (patting  her  cheek).  My  little  pet  girl. 
(He  kisses  her;  she  goes  to  the  chair  left  by  Nicola  for 
Sergius,  and  sits  down.^ 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  INI  an  33 

Catherine.  And  so  you're  no  longer  a  soldier, 
Sergius. 

Sergius.  I  am  no  longer  a  soldier.  Soldiering,  my 
dear  madam,  is  the  coward's  art  of  attacking  mercilessly 
when  you  are  strong,  and  keeping  out  of  harm's  way 
when  you  are  weak.  That  is  the  whole  secret  of  success- 
ful fighting.  Get  your  enemy  at  a  disadvantage;  and 
never,  on  any  account,  fight  him  on  equal  terms.  Eh, 
Major! 

Petkoff.  They  wouldn't  let  us  make  a  fair  stand-up 
fight  of  it.  However,  I  suppose  soldiering  has  to  be  a 
trade  like  any  other  trade. 

Sergius.  Precisely.  But  I  have  no  ambition  to  suc- 
ceed as  a  tradesman;  so  I  have  taken  the  advice  of  that 
bagman  of  a  captain  that  settled  the  exchange  of  pris- 
oners with  us  at  Peerot,  and  given  it  up. 

Petkoff.  What,  that  Swiss  fellow.^  Sergius:  I've 
often  thought  of  that  exchange  since.  He  over-reached 
us  about  those  horses. 

Sergius.  Of  course  he  over-reached  us.  His  father 
was  a  hotel  and  livery  stable  keeper ;  and  he  owed  his  first 
step  to  his  knowledge  of  horse-dealing.  {With  mock 
enthusiasm.)  Ah,  he  was  a  soldier — every  inch  a  soldier! 
If  only  I  had  bought  the  horses  for  my  regiment  instead 
of  foolishly  leading  it  into  danger,  I  should  have  been  a 
field-marshal  now ! 

Catherine.  A  Swiss?  What  was  he  doing  in  the 
Servian  army? 

Petkoff.  A  volunteer  of  course — keen  on  picking  up 
his  profession.  {Chuckling.)  We  shouldn't  have  been 
able  to  begin  fighting  if  these  foreigners  hadn't  shewn 
us  how  to  do  it:  we  knew  nothing  about  it;  and  neither 
did  the  Servians.  Egad,  there'd  have  been  no  war  with- 
out them. 

Raina.  Are  there  many  Swiss  officers  in  the  Servian 
army? 

Petkoff.     No — all  Austrians,  just  as  our  officers  were 


34  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  IT 

all  Russians.  This  was  the  only  Swiss  I  came  across. 
I'll  never  trust  a  Swiss  again.  He  cheated  us — hum- 
bugged us  into  giving  him  fifty  able  bodied  men  for  two 
hundred  confounded  worn  out  chargers.  They  weren't 
even  eatable ! 

Sergius.  We  were  two  children  in  the  hands  of  that 
consummate  soldier^  Major:  simply  two  innocent  little 
children. 

Raina.     What  was  he  like? 

Catherine.     Oh,  Raina,  what  a  silly  question! 

Sergius.  He  was  like  a  commercial  traveller  in  uni- 
form.    Bourgeois  to  his  boots. 

Petkoff  (grinning).  Sergius:  tell  Catherine  that 
queer  story  his  friend  told  us  about  him — how  he  escaped 
after  Slivnitza.  You  remember? — about  his  being  hid 
by  two  women. 

Sergius  (with  bitter  irony).  Oh,  yes,  quite  a  romance. 
He  was  serving  in  the  very  battery  I  so  unprof  essionally 
charged.  Being  a  thorough  soldier,  he  ran  away  like  the 
rest  of  them,  with  our  cavalry  at  his  heels.  To  escape 
their  attentions,  he  had  the  good  taste  to  take  refuge  in 
the  chamber  of  some  patriotic  young  Bulgarian  lady. 
The  young  lady  was  enchanted  by  his  persuasive  com- 
mercial traveller's  manners.  She  very  modestly  enter- 
tained him  for  an  hour  or  so  and  then  called  in  her 
mother  lest  her  conduct  should  appear  unmaidenly.  The 
old  lady  was  equally  fascinated;  and  the  fugitive  was 
sent  on  his  way  in  the  morning,  disguised  in  an  old  coat 
belonging  to  the  master  of  the  house,  who  was  away  at 
the  war. 

Raina  (rising  with  marked  stateliness) .  Your  life  in 
the  camp  has  made  you  coarse,  Sergius.  I  did  not  think 
you  would  have  repeated  such  a  story  before  me.  (She 
turns  away  coldly.) 

Catherine  (also  rising).  She  is  right,  Sergius.  If 
such  women  exist,  we  should  be  spared  the  knowledge 
of  them. 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  Man  35 

Petkoff.     Pooh!  nonsense!  what  does  it  matter? 

Sergius  (ashamed) .  No,  PetkofF:  I  was  wrong.  (To 
Raina,  with  earnest  humility.)  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
have  behaved  abominably.  Forgive  me,  Raina.  (She 
hows  reservedly.)  And  you,  too,  madam.  (Catherine 
hows  graciously  and  sits  down.  He  proceeds  solemnly, 
again  addressing  Raina.)  The  glimpses  I  have  had  of 
the  seamy  side  of  life  during  the  last  few  months  have 
made  me  cynical;  but  I  should  not  have  brought  my 
cynicism  here — least  of  all  into  your  presence,  Raina. 
I —  (Here,  turning  to  the  others,  he  is  evidently  about 
to  begin  a  long  speech  when  the  Major  interrupts  'him.) 

Petkoff.  Stuff  and  nonsense,  Sergius.  That's  quite 
enough  fuss  about  nothing:  a  soldier's  daughter  should 
be  able  to  stand  up  without  flinching  to  a  little  strong 
conversation.  (He  rises.)  Come:  it's  time  for  us  to  get 
to  business.  We  have  to  make  up  our  minds  how  those 
three  regiments  are  to  get  back  to  Phillipopolis : — there's 
no  forage  for  them  on  the  Sophia  route.  (He  goes 
towards  the  house.)  Come  along.  (Sergius  is  about  to 
follow  him  when  Catherine  rises  and  intervenes.) 

Catherine.  Oh,  Paul,  can't  you  spare  Sergius  for  a 
few  moments.''  Raina  has  hardly  seen  him  yet.  Per- 
haps I  can  help  you  to  settle  about  the  regiments. 

Sergius  (protesting).  My  dear  madam,  impossible: 
you 

Catherine  (stopping  him  playfully).  You  stay  here, 
my  dear  Sergius:  there's  no  hurry.  I  have  a  word  or 
two  to  say  to  Paul.  (Sergius  instantly  bows  and  steps 
back.)  Now,  dear  (taking  Petkoff 's  arm),  come  and  see 
the  electric  bell. 

Petkoff.  Oh,  very  well,  very  well.  (They  go  into 
the  house  together  affectionately.  Sergius,  left  alone 
with  Raina,  looks  anxiously  at  her,  fearing  that  she  may 
be  still  offended.  She  smiles,  and  stretches  out  her  arms 
to  him.) 

(Exit  R.  into  house,  followed  by  Catherine.) 


36  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  II 

Sergius  (hastening  to  her,  hut  refraining  from  touch- 
ing her  without  express  permission^.     Am  I  forgiven? 

Raina  (placing  her  hands  on  his  shoulder  as  she  looks 
up  at  him  with  admiration  and  worship).  My  hero!  My 
king. 

Sergius.  My  queen !  ( J/e  kisses  her  on  the  forehead 
with  holy  awe.} 

Raina.  How  I  have  envied  you,  Sergius !  You  have 
been  out  in  the  world,  on  the  field  of  battle,  able  to  prove 
yourself  there  worthy  of  any  woman  in  the  world ;  whilst 
I  have  had  to  sit  at  home  inactive, — dreaming — useless 
■ — doing  nothing  that  could  give  me  the  right  to  call 
myself  worthy  of  any  man. 

Sergius.  Dearest,  all  my  deeds  have  been  yours.  You 
inspired  me.  I  have  gone  through  the  war  like  a  knight 
in  a  tournament  with  his  lady  looking  on  at  him ! 

Raina.  And  you  have  never  been  absent  from  my 
thoughts  for  a  moment.  (Very  solemnly.)  Sergius:  I 
think  we  two  have  found  the  higher  love.  When  I  think 
of  you,  I  feel  that  I  could  never  do  a  base  deed,  or  think 
an  ignoble  thought. 

Sergius.  My  lady,  and  my  saint !  (Clasping  her  rev- 
erently.) 

Raina    (returning  his   embrace).      My  lord   and   my 

g 

Sergius.     Sh — sh !     Let  me  be  the  worshipper,  dear. 

You  little  know  how  unworthy  even  the  best  man  is  of  a 
girl's  pure  passion ! 

Raina.  I  trust  you.  I  love  you.  You  will  never  dis- 
appoint me,  Sergius.  (Louka  is  heard  singing  within  the 
house.  Tliey  quickly  release  each  other.)  Hush!  I 
can't  pretend  to  talk  indifferently  before  her:  my  heart 
is  too  full.  (Louka  comes  from  the  house  with  her  tray. 
She  goes  to  the  table,  and  begins  to  clear  it,  with  her 
hack  turned  to  them.)  I  will  go  and  get  my  hat;  and 
then  we  can  go  out  until  lunch  time.  Wouldn't  you  like 
that.? 


Act  n  Arms  and  the  Man  37 

Sergius.  Be  quick.  If  you  are  away  five  minutes,  it 
will  seem  five  hours.  (Raina  runs  to  the  top  of  the  steps 
and  turns  there  to  exchange  a  look  rvith  him  and  rvave 
him  a  kiss  with  both  hands.  He  looks  after  her  with 
emotion  for  a  moment,  then  turns  slowly  away,  his  face 
radiant  with  the  exultation  of  the  scene  which  has  just 
passed.  The  movement  shifts  his  field  of  vision,  into  the 
corner  of  which  there  now  comes  the  tail  of  Louka's 
double  apron.  His  eye  gleams  at  once.  He  takes  a 
stealthy  look  at  her,  and  begins  to  twirl  his  moustache 
nervously,  with  his  left  hand  akimbo  on  his  hip.  Finally, 
striking  the  ground  with  his  heels  in  something  of  a 
cavalry  swagger,  he  strolls  over  to  the  left  of  the  table, 
opposite  her,  and  says)  Louka:  do  you  know  what  the 
higher  love  is  } 

LouKA  (^astonished).     No,  sir. 

Sergius.  Very  fatiguing  thing  to  keep  up  for  any 
length  of  time,  Louka.  One  feels  the  need  of  some  relief 
after  it. 

LouKA  (innocently).  Perhaps  you  would  like  some 
coffee,  sir.f*  (She  stretches  her  hand  across  the  table  for 
the  coffee  pot.) 

Sergius  (taking  her  hand).     Thank  you,  Louka. 

LouKA  (pretending  to  pull).  Oh,  sir,  you  know  I 
didn't  mean  that.     I'm  surprised  at  you! 

Sergius  (coming  clear  of  the  table  and  drawing  her 
rvith  him).  I  am  surprised  at  myself,  Louka.  What 
would  Sergius,  the  hero  of  Slivnitza,  say  if  he  saw  me 
now?  What  would  Sergius,  the  apostle  of  the  higher 
love,  say  if  he  saw  me  now?  What  would  the  half  dozen 
Sergiuses  who  keep  popping  in  and  out  of  this  handsome 
figure  of  mine  say  if  they  caught  us  here?  (Letting  go 
her  hand  and  slipping  his  arm  dexterously  round  her 
waist.)      Do  you  consider  my  figure  handsome,  Louka? 

LouKA.  Let  me  go,  sir.  I  shall  be  disgraced.  (She 
struggles:  he  holds  her  inexorably.)  Oh,  will  you  let 
go? 


38  Arms  and  the  INIan  Act  II 

Sergius  {looking  straight  into  her  eyes).     No. 

LouKA.  Then  stand  back  where  we  can't  be  seen. 
Have  you  no  common  sense? 

Sergius.  Ah,  that's  reasonable.  {He  takes  her  into 
the  stahleyard  gateway,  where  they  are  hidden  from  the 
house.) 

LouKA  {complaining) .  I  may  have  been  seen  from  the 
windows :  Miss  Raina  is  sure  to  be  spying  about  after  you. 

Sergius  {stung — letting  her  go).  Take  care,  Louka. 
I  may  be  worthless  enough  to  betray  the  higher  love; 
but  do  not  you  insult  it. 

LouKA  {demurely).  Not  for  the  world,  sir,  I'm  sure. 
May  I  go  on  with  my  work  please,  now? 

Sergius  {again  putting  his  arm  round  her).  You  are 
a  provoking  little  witch,  Louka.  If  you  were  in  love 
with  me,  would  you  spy  out  of  windows  on  me? 

LouKA.  Well,  you  see,  sir,  since  you  say  you  are  half 
a  dozen  different  gentlemen  all  at  once,  I  should  have  a 
great  deal  to  look  after. 

Sergius  {charmed).  Witty  as  well  as  pretty.  {He 
tries  to  kiss  her.) 

LouKA  {avoiding  him).  No,  I  don't  want  your  kisses. 
Gentlefolk  are  all  alike — you  making  love  to  me  behind 
Miss  Raina's  back,  and  she  doing  the  same  behind  yours. 

Sergius  {recoiling  a  step).     Louka! 

LouKA.     It  shews  how  little  you  really  care ! 

Sergius  {dropping  his  familiarity  and  speaking  with 
freezing  politeness).  If  our  conversation  is  to  continue, 
Louka,  you  will  please  remember  that  a  gentleman  does 
not  discuss  the  conduct  of  the  lady  he  is  engaged  to  with 
her  maid. 

LouKA.  It's  so  hard  to  know  what  a  gentleman  con- 
siders right.  I  thought  from  your  trying  to  kiss  me  that 
you  had  given  up  being  so  particular. 

Sergius  {turning  from  her  and  striking  his  forehead 
as  he  comes  back  into  the  garden  from  the  gateway). 
Devil!  devil! 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  Man  39 

LouKA.  Ha !  ha !  I  expect  one  of  the  six  of  you  is 
very  like  me,  sir,  though  I  am  only  Miss  Raina's  maid. 
(^She  goes  hack  to  her  work  at  the  table,  taking  no  fur- 
ther notice  of  him.) 

Sergius  (speaking  to  himself).  Which  of  the  six  is 
the  real  man  ? — that's  the  question  that  torments  me. 
One  of  them  is  a  hero,  another  a  buffoon,  another  a  hum- 
bug, another  perhaps  a  bit  of  a  blackguard.  (He  pauses 
and  looks  furtively  at  Louka,  as  he  adds  with  deep  bit- 
terness.) And  one,  at  least,  is  a  coward — jealous,  like 
all  cowards.     (He  goes  to  the  table.)     Louka. 

LouKA.     Yes? 

Sergius.     Who  is  my  rival? 

Louka.  You  shall  never  get  that  out  of  me,  for  love 
or  money. 

Sergius.     Why  ? 

Louka.  Never  mind  why.  Besides,  you  would  tell 
that  I  told  you ;  and  I  should  lose  my  place. 

Sergius  (holding  out  his  right  hand  iji  affirmation). 
No;  on  the  honor  of  a —  (He  checks  himself,  and  his 
hand  drops  nerveless  as  he  concludes,  sardonically)  — of 
a  man  capable  of  behaving  as  I  have  been  behaving  for 
the  last  fiv  e  minutes.    Who  is  he  ? 

Louka.  I  don't  know.  I  never  saw  him.  I  only 
heard  his  voice  through  the  door  of  her  room. 

Sergius.     Damnation  !     How  dare  you  ? 

Louka  (retreating).  Oh,  I  mean  no  harm:  you've  no 
right  to  take  up  my  words  like  that.  The  mistress  knows 
all  about  it.  And  I  tell  you  that  if  that  gentleman  ever 
comes  here  again.  Miss  Raina  will  marry  him,  whether 
he  likes  it  or  not.  I  know  the  difference  between  the 
sort  of  manner  you  and  she  put  on  before  one  another 
and  the  real  manner.  (Sergius  shivers  as  if  she  had 
stabbed  him.  Then,  setting  his  face  like  iron,  he  strides 
grimly  to  her,  and  grips  her  above  the  elbows  with  both 
hands.) 

Sergius.     Now  listen  you  to  me ! 


40  Arms  and  the  JMan  Act  II 

LouKA  (wincing).  Not  so  tight:  you're  hurting 
me! 

Sergius.  That  doesn't  matter.  You  have  stained  my 
honor  by  making  me  a  party  to  your  eavesdropping. 
And  you  have  betrayed  your  mistress 

LouKA  (writhing).     Please 

Sergius.  That  shews  that  you  are  an  abominable  little 
clod  of  common  clay,  with  the  soul  of  a  servant.  (^He 
lets  her  go  as  if  she  were  an  unclean  thing,  and  turns 
away,  dusting  his  hands  of  her,  to  the  bench  by  the  wall, 
where  he  sits  down  with  averted  head,  meditating  gloom- 
ily.) 

LouKA  (whimpering  angrily  with  her  hands  up  her 
sleeves,  feeling  her  bruised  arms).  You  know  how  to 
hurt  with  your  tongue  as  well  as  with  your  hands.  But 
I  don't  care,  now  I've  found  out  that  whatever  clay  I'm 
made  of,  you're  made  of  the  same.  As  for  her,  she's  a 
liar;  and  her  fine  airs  are  a  cheat;  and  I'm  worth  six  of 
her.  (She  shakes  the  pain  off  hardily;  tosses  her  head; 
and  sets  to  work  to  put  the  things  on  the  tray.  He  looks 
doubtfully  at  her  once  or  twice.  She  finishes  packing 
the  tray,  and  laps  the  cloth  over  the  edges,  so  as  to  carry 
all  out  together.     As  she  stoops  to  lift  it,  he  rises.) 

Sergius.  Louka !  (She  stops  and  looks  defiantly  at 
him  ivith  the  tray  in  her  hands.)  A  gentleman  has  no 
right  to  hurt  a  woman  under  any  circumstances.  (With 
profound  humility,  uncovering  his  head.)  I  beg  your 
pardon. 

LouKA.  That  sort  of  apology  may  satisfy  a  lady.  Of 
what  use  is  it  to  a  servant? 

Sergius  (thus  rudely  crossed  in  his  chivalry,  throws  it 
off  with  a  bitter  laugh  and  says  slightingly).  Oh,  you 
wish  to  be  paid  for  the  hurt.''  (He  puts  on  his  shako, 
and  takes  some  money  from  his  pocket.) 

LouKA  (her  eyes  filling  with  tears  in  spite  of  herself). 
No,  I  want  my  hurt  made  well. 

Sergius  (sobered  by  her  tone).     How? 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  Man  41 

(She  rolls  up  her  left  sleeve;  clasps  her  arm  with  the 
thumb  and  fingers  of  her  right  hand;  and  looks  down  at 
the  bruise.  Then  she  raises  her  head  and  looks  straight 
at  him.  Finally,  with  a  superb  gesture  she  presents  her 
arm  to  be  kissed.  Amazed,  he  looks  at  her;  at  the  arm, 
at  her  again;  hesitates;  and  then,  with  shuddering  inten- 
sity, exclaims^  Never !  (and  gets  away  as  far  as  possible 
from  her.) 

{Her  arm  drops.  Without  a  word,  and  with  unaffected 
dignity,  she  takes  her  tray,  and  is  approaching  the  house 
when  Raina  returns  wearing  a  hat  and  jacket  in  the 
height  of  the  Vienna  fashion  of  the  previous  year,  1885. 
Louka  makes  way  proudly  for  her,  and  then  goes  into 
the  house.) 

Raina.  I'm  ready!  What's  the  matter?  (Gaily.) 
Have  you  been  flirting  with  Louka? 

Sergius  (hastily).  No,  no.  How  can  you  think  such 
a  thing? 

Raina  (ashamed  of  herself).  Forgive  me,  dear:  it 
was  only  a  jest.     I  am  so  happy  to-day. 

(He  goes  quickly  to  her,  and  kisses  her  hand  remorse- 
fully. Catherine  comes  out  and  calls  to  them  from  the 
top  of  the  steps.) 

Catherine  (coming  down  to  them).  I  am  sorry  to 
disturb  you,  children;  but  Paul  is  distracted  over  those 
three  regiments.  He  does  not  know  how  to  get  them  to 
Phillipopolis;  and  he  objects  to  every  suggestion  of 
mine.  You  must  go  and  help  him,  Sergius.  He  is  in 
the  library. 

Raina  (disappointed) .  But  we  are  just  going  out  for 
a  walk. 

Sergius.  I  shall  not  be  long.  Wait  for  me  just  five 
minutes.     (He  runs  up  the  steps  to  the  door.) 

Raina  (following  him  to  the  foot  of  the  steps  and 
looking  up  at  him  with  timid  coquetry).  I  shall  go 
round  and  wait  in  full  view  of  the  library  windows.  Be 
sure  you  draw  father's  attention  to  me.     If  you  are  a 


42  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  II 

moment  longer  than  five  minutes^  I  shall  go  in  and  fetch 
you,  regiments  or  no  regiments. 

Sergius  {laughing).  Very  well.  {He  goes  in.  Raina 
watches  him  until  he  is  out  of  her  sight.  Then,  with  a 
perceptible  relaxation  of  manner,  she  begins  to  pace  up 
and  down  about  the  garden  in  a  brown  study.) 

Catherine.  Imagine  their  meeting  that  Swiss  and 
hearing  the  whole  story !  The  very  first  thing  your 
father  asked  for  was  the  old  coat  we  sent  him  off  in.  A 
nice  mess  you  have  got  us  into ! 

Raina  {gazing  thoughtfully  at  the  gravel  as  she 
walks).     The  little  beast! 

Catherine.     Little  beast!     What  little  beast? 

Raina.  To  go  and  tell.  Oh,  if  I  had  him  here,  I'd 
stuff  him  with  chocolate  creams  till  he  couldn't  ever 
speak  again ! 

Catherine.  Don't  talk  nonsense.  Tell  me  the  truth, 
Raina.  How  long  was  he  in  your  room  before  you  came 
to  me.'' 

Raina  {whisking  round  and  recommencing  her  march 
in  the  opposite  direction).     Oh,  I  forget. 

Catherine.  You  cannot  forget !  Did  he  really  climb 
up  after  the  soldiers  were  gone,  or  was  he  there  when 
that  officer  searched  the  room  ? 

Raina.  No.  Yes,  I  think  he  must  have  been  there 
then. 

Catherine.  You  think!  Oh,  Raina,  Raina!  Will 
anything  ever  make  you  straightforward?  If  Sergius 
finds  out,  it  is  all  over  between  you. 

Raina  {with  cool  impertinence).  Oh,  I  know  Sergius 
is  your  pet.  I  sometimes  wish  you  could  marry  him 
instead  of  me.  You  would  just  suit  him.  You  would 
pet  hhn,  and  spoil  him,  and  mother  him  to  perfection. 

Catherine  {opening  her  eyes  very  widely  indeed). 
Well,  upon  my  word ! 

Raina  {capriciously — half  to  herself).  I  always  feel 
a  longing  to  do  or  say  something  dreadful  to  him — to 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  Man  .43 

shock  his  propriety — to  scandalize  the  five  senses  out  of 
him!  {To  Catherine  perversely.)  I  don't  care  whether 
he  finds  out  about  the  chocolate  cream  soldier  or  not.  I 
half  hope  he  may.  {She  again  turns  flippantly  arvay 
and  strolls  up  the  path  to  the  corner  of  the  house.) 

Catherine.  And  what  should  I  be  able  to  say  to  your 
father,  pray.^ 

Raina  {over  her  shoulder,  from  the  top  of  the  two 
steps).  Oh,  poor  father!  As  if  he  could  help  himself! 
{She  turns  the  corner  and  passes  out  of  sight.) 

Catherine  {looking  after  her,  her  fingers  itching). 
Oh,  if  you  were  only  ten  years  younger !  {Louka  comes 
from  the  house  with  a  salver,  which  she  carries  hanging 
down  by  her  side.)     Well? 

LouKA.  There's  a  gentleman  just  called,  madam — a 
Servian  officer 

Catherine  {flaming).  A  Servian!  How  dare  he — 
{Checking  herself  bitterly.)  Oh,  I  forgot.  We  are  at 
peace  now.  I  suppose  we  shall  have  them  calling  every 
day  to  pay  their  compliments.  Well,  if  he  is  an  officer 
why  don't  you  tell  your  master?  He  is  in  the  library 
with  Major  Saranoff.     Why  do  you  come  to  me? 

LouKA.  But  he  asks  for  you,  madam.  And  I  don't 
think  he  knows  who  you  are:  he  said  the  lady  of  the 
house.  He  gave  me  this  little  ticket  for  you.  {She  takes 
a  card  out  of  her  bosom;  puts  it  on  the  salver  and  offers 
it  to  Catherine.) 

Catherine  {reading).  "Captain  Bluntschli!"  That's 
a  German  name. 

LouKA.     Swiss,  madam,  I  think. 

Catherine  {with  a  bound  that  makes  Louka  jump 
back).     Swiss!     What  is  he  like? 

LouKA   {timidly).     He  has  a  big  carpet  bag,  madam. 

Catherine.  Oh,  Heavens,  he's  come  to  return  the 
coat !  Send  him  away — say  we're  not  at  home — ask  him 
to  leave  his  address  and  I'll  write  to  him —  Oh,  stop: 
that  will  never  do.     Wait!     {She  throws  herself  into  a 


44  Arms  and  the  INlan  Act  II 

chair  to  think  it  out.  Louka  waits.)  The  master  and 
Major  SaranofF  are  busy  in  the  library,  aren't  they? 

Louka.     Yes,  madam. 

Catherine  (decisively).  Bring  the  gentleman  out 
here  at  once.  (Imperatively.)  And  be  very  polite  to 
him.  Don't  delay.  Here  (impatiently  snatching  the 
salver  from  her):  leave  that  here;  and  go  straight  back 
to  him. 

Louka.     Yes,  madam.     (Going.) 

Catherine.     Louka ! 

Louka   (stopping).     Yes,  madam. 

Catherine.     Is  the  library  door  shut? 

Louka.     I  think  so,  madam. 

Catherine.     If  not,  shut  it  as  you  pass  through. 

Louka.     Yes,  madam.   (Going.) 

Catherine.  Stop!  (Louka  stops.)  He  will  have  to 
go  out  that  way  (indicating  the  gate  of  the  stable  yard). 
Tell  Nicola  to  bring  his  bag  here  after  him.  Don't  for- 
get. 

Louka  (surprised).     His  bag? 

Catherine.  Yes,  here,  as  soon  as  possible.  (Vehe- 
mently.) Be  quick !  (Louka  runs  into  the  house.  Cath- 
erine snatches  her  apron  off  and  throws  it  behind  a  bush. 
She  then  takes  up  the  salver  and  uses  it  as  a  mirror, 
with  the  result  that  the  handkerchief  tied  round  her  head 
follows  the  apron.  A  touch  to  her  hair  and  a  shake  to 
her  dressing  gown  makes  her  presentable.)  Oh,  how — 
how — how  can  a  man  be  such  a  fool!  Such  a  moment 
to  select!  (Louka  appears  at  the  door  of  the  house,  an- 
nouncing "  Captain  Bluntschli ;  "  and  standing  aside  at 
the  top  of  the  steps  to  let  him  pass  before  she  goes  in 
again.  He  is  the  man  of  the  adventure  in  Raina's  room, 
lie  is  now  clean,  well  brushed,  smartly  uniformed,  and 
out  of  trouble,  but  still  unmistakably  the  same  man.  The 
moment  Louka's  back  is  turned,  Catherine  swoops  on  him 
with  hurried,  urgent,  coaxing  appeal.)  Captain  Blunt- 
schli, I  am  very  glad  to  see  you;  but  you  must  leave 


Act  it  Arms  and  the  Man  45 

this  house  at  once.  {He  raises  his  eyebrows.)  My  hus- 
band has  just  returned,  with  my  future  son-in-law;  and 
they  know  nothing.  If  they  did,  the  consequences  would 
be  terrible.  You  are  a  foreigner:  you  do  not  feel  our 
national  animosities  as  we  do.  We  still  hate  the  Ser- 
vians: the  only  effect  of  the  peace  on  my  husband  is  to 
make  him  feel  like  a  lion  baulked  of  his  prey.  If  he 
discovered  our  secret,  he  would  never  forgive  me;  and 
my  daughter's  life  would  hardly  be  safe.  Will  you,  like 
the  chivalrous  gentleman  and  soldier  you  are,  leave  at 
once  before  he  finds  you  here? 

Bluntschli  {disappointed,  but  philosophical).  At 
once,  gracious  lady.  I  only  came  to  thank  you  and  re- 
turn the  coat  you  lent  me.  If  you  will  alloAV  me  to  take 
it  out  of  my  bag  and  leave  it  with  your  servant  as  I  pass 
out,  I  need  detain  you  no  further.  {He  turns  to  go  into 
the  house.) 

Catherine  {catching  him  by  the  sleeve).  Oh,  you 
must  not  think  of  going  back  that  way.  {Coaxing  him 
across  to  the  stable  gates.)  This  is  the  shortest  way  out. 
Many  thanks.  So  glad  to  have  been  of  service  to  you. 
Good-bye. 

Bluntschli.     But  my  bag? 

Catherine.  It  will  be  sent  on.  You  will  leave  me 
your  address. 

Bluntschli.  True.  Allow  me.  {He  takes  out  his 
card-case,  and  stops  to  write  his  address,  keeping  Cath- 
erine in  an  agony  of  impatience.  As  he  hands  her  the 
card,  Petkoff,  hatless,  rushes  from  the  house  in  a  fluster 
of  hospitality,  followed  by  Sergius.) 

Petkoff  {as  he  hurries  down  the  steps).  My  dear 
Captain  Bluntschli 

Catherine.  Oh  Heavens !  {She  sinks  on  the  seat 
against  the  wall.) 

Petkoff  {too  preoccupied  to  notice  her  as  he  shakes 
Bluntschli's  hand  heartily).  Those  stupid  people  of 
mine  thought  I  was  out  here,  instead  of  in  the — haw ! — 


46  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  II 

library.  (77e  cannot  mention  the  library  rvithout  betray- 
ing how  proud  he  is  of  it.)  I  saw  you  through  the  win- 
dow. I  was  wondering  why  you  didn't  come  in.  Sar- 
anofF  is  with  me:  you  remember  him,  don't  you? 

Sergius  {saluting  humorously,  and  then  offering  his 
hand  with  great  charm  of  maimer).  Welcome,  our  friend 
the  enemy ! 

Petkoff.  No  longer  the  enemy,  happily.  (Rather 
anxiously.)  I  hope  j'ou've  come  as  a  friend,  and  not  on 
business. 

Catherine.  Oh,  quite  as  a  friend,  Paul.  I  was  just 
asking  Captain  Bluntschli  to  stay  to  lunch;  but  he  de- 
clares he  must  go  at  once. 

Sergius  {sardonically).  Impossible,  Bluntschli.  We 
want  3"ou  here  badly.  We  have  to  send  on  three  cavalry 
regiments  to  Phillipopolis ;  and  we  don't  in  the  least 
know  how  to  do  it. 

Bluntchli  (suddenly  attentive  and  business-like). 
Phillipopolis  !     The  forage  is  the  trouble,  eh  ? 

Petkoff  (eagerly).  Yes,  that's  it.  (To  Sergius.) 
He  sees  the  whole  thing  at  once. 

Bluntschli.  I  think  I  can  shew  you  how  to  manage 
that. 

Sergius.  Invaluable  man!  Come  along!  (Tower- 
ing over  Bluntschli,  he  puts  his  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  takes  him  to  the  steps,  Petkoff  following.  As  Blunt- 
schli puts  his  foot  on  the  first  step,  Raina  comes  out  of 
the  house.) 

Raina  (completely  losing  her  presence  of  mind).  Oh, 
the  chocolate  cream  soldier ! 

(Bluntschli  stands  rigid.  Sergius,  amazed,  looks  at 
Raina,  then  at  Petkoff,  who  looks  back  at  him  and  then 
at  his  wife.) 

Catherine  (with  commanding  presence  of  mind). 
My  dear  Raina,  don't  you  see  that  we  have  a  guest  here 
— Captain  Bluntschli,  one  of  our  new  Servian  friends .'' 

(Raina  bows;  Bluntschli  bows.) 


Act  II  Arms  and  the  INIan  47 

Raina.  How  silly  of  me !  (She  comes  down  into  the 
centre  of  the  group,  between  Bluntschli  and  Petkoff.) 
I  made  a  beautiful  ornament  this  morning  for  the  ice 
pudding;  and  that  stupid  Nicola  has  just  put  down  a 
pile  of  plates  on  it  and  spoiled  it.  (To  Bluntschli,  win- 
ningly.)  I  hope  you  didn't  think  that  you  were  the 
chocolate  cream  soldier^  Captain  Bluntschli. 

Bluntschli  (laughing).  I  assure  you  I  did.  (Steal- 
ing a  whimsical  glance  at  her.)  Your  explanation  was  a 
relief. 

Petkoff  (suspiciously,  to  Raina).  And  since  when, 
pray,  have  you  taken  to  cooking? 

Catherine.  Oh,  whilst  you  were  away.  It  is  her 
latest  fancy. 

Petkoff  (testily).  And  has  Nicola  taken  to  drink- 
ing? He  used  to  be  careful  enough.  First  he  shews 
Captain  Bluntschli  out  here  when  he  knew  quite  well  I 
was  in  the — hum  ! — library ;  and  then  he  goes  downstairs 
and  breaks  Raina's  chocolate  soldier.  He  must —  (At 
this  moment  Nicola  appears  at  the  top  of  the  steps  R., 
with  a  carpet  bag.  He  descends;  places  it  respectfully 
before  Bluntschli;  and  waits  for  further  orders.  General 
amazement.  Nicola,  unconscious  of  the  effect  he  is  pro- 
ducing, looks  perfectly  satisfied  with  himself.  When 
Petkoff  recovers  his  power  of  speech,  he  breaks  out  at 
him  with)     Are  you  mad,  Nicola? 

Nicola   (taken  aback).      Sir? 

Petkoff.     What  have  you  brought  that  for? 

Nicola.  My  lady's  orders,  sir.  Louka  told  me 
that 

Catherine  (interrupting  him).  My  orders!  Why 
should  I  order  you  to  bring  Captain  Bluntschli's  luggage 
out  here?     What  are  you  tliinking  of,  Nicola? 

Nicola  (after  a  moment's  bewilderment,  picking  up 
the  bag  as  he  addresses  Bluntschli  with  the  very  perfec- 
tion of  servile  discretion).  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I 
am  sure.     (To  Catherine.)     My  fault,  madam!     I  hope 


48  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  II 

you'll  overlook  it !  {He  hows,  and  is  going  to  the  steps 
with  the  bag,  when  Petkoff  addresses  him  angrily.) 

Petkoff.  You'd  better  go  and  slam  that  bag,  too, 
down  on  Miss  Raina's  ice  pudding!  (This  is  too  much 
for  Nicola.  The  bag  drops  from  his  hands  on  Petkoff's 
corns,  eliciting  a  roar  of  anguish  from  him.)  Begone, 
you  butter-fingered  donkey. 

Nicola  (snatching  up  the  bag,  and  escaping  into  the 
house).     Yes,  sir. 

Catherine.     Oh,  never  mind,  Paul,  don't  be  angry! 

Petkoff  (muttering).  Scoundrel.  He's  got  out  of 
hand  while  I  was  away.  I'll  teach  him.  (Recollecting 
his  guest.)  Oh,  well,  never  mind.  Come,  Bluntschli, 
let's  have  no  more  nonsense  about  you  having  to  go 
away.  You  know  very  well  you're  not  going  back  to 
Switzerland  yet.  Until  you  do  go  back  you'll  stay  with 
us, 

Raina.     Oh,  do.  Captain  Blimtschli. 

Petkoff  (to  Catherine).  Now,  Catherine,  it's  of  you 
that  he's  afraid.     Press  him  and  he'll  stay. 

Catherine.  Of  course  I  shall  be  only  too  delighted 
if  (appealingly)  Captain  Bluntschli  really  wishes  to 
stay.     He  knows  my  wishes. 

Bluntschli  (in  his  driest  military  manner).  I  am 
at  madame's  orders. 

Sergius  (cordially).      That  settles  it! 

Petkoff  (heartily).     Of  course! 

Raina.      You  see,  you  must  stay! 

Bluntschli  (smiling).     Well,  if  I  must,  I  must! 

(Gesture  of  despair  from  Catherine.) 

END   of   act  II. 


ACT    III 

In  the  library  after  lunch.  It  is  not  much  of  a  library, 
its  literary  equipment  consisting  of  a  single  fixed  shelf 
stocked  niih  old  paper  covered  novels,  broken  backed, 
coffee  stained,  torn  and  thumbed,  and  a  couple  of  little 
hanging  shelves  with  a  ferv  gift  books  on  them,  the  rest 
of  the  wall  space  being  occupied  by  trophies  of  war  and 
the  chase.  But  it  is  a  most  comfortable  sitting-room.  A 
row  of  three  large  windows  in  the  front  of  the  house 
shew  a  mountain  panorama,  which  is  just  now  seen  in 
one  of  its  softest  aspects  in  the  melloiving  afternoon 
light.  In  the  left  hand  corner,  a  square  earthenware 
stove,  a  perfect  tower  of  colored  pottery,  rises  nearly  to 
the  ceiling  and  guarantees  plenty  of  warmth.  The  otto- 
man in  the  middle  is  a  circular  bank  of  decorated  cush- 
ions, and  the  window  seats  are  well  upholstered  divans. 
Little  Turkish  tables,  one  of  them  with  an  elaborate 
hookah  on  it,  and  a  screen  to  match  them,  complete  the 
handsome  effect  of  the  furnishing.  There  is  one  object, 
however,  which  is  hopelessly  out  of  keeping  with  itst. 
surroundings.  This  is  a  small  kitchen  table,  much  the 
worse  for  wear,  fitted  as  a  writing  table  with  an  old 
canister  full  of  pens,  an  eggcup  filled  with  ink,  and  a 
deplorable  scrap  of  severely  used  pink  blotting  paper. 

At  the  side  of  this  table,  which  stands  on  the  right, 
Bluntsrhli  is  hard  at  work,  with  a  couple  of  maps  before 
him,  writing  orders.  At  the  head  of  it  sits  Sergius,  who 
is  also  supposed  to  be  at  work,  but  who  is  actually  gnaw- 
ing the  feather  of  a  pen,  and  contemplating  Bluntschli's 
quick,  sure,  businesslike  progress  with  a  mixture  of 
envious  irritation  at  his  own  incapacity,  and  awestruck 
wonder  at  an  ability  which  seems  to  him  almost  miracu- 

49 


50  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

lous,  though  its  prosaic  character  forbids  him  to  esteem 
it.  The  major  is  comfortably  established  on  the  otto- 
man, with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand  and  the  tube  of 
the  hookah  within  his  reach.  Catherine  sits  at  the  stove, 
with  her  back  to  them,  embroidering.  Raina,  reclining 
on  the  divan  under  the  left  hand  window,  is  gazing  in 
a  daydream  out  at  the  Balkan  landscape,  with  a  neg-- 
lected  novel  in  her  lap. 

The  door  is  on  the  left.  The  button  of  the  electric 
bell  is  between  the  door  and  the  fireplace. 

Petkoff  {looking  up  from  his  paper  to  watch  how 
they  are  getting  on  at  the  table).  Are  you  sure  I  can't 
help  you  in  any  way,  Bluntschli? 

Bluntschli  {without  interrupting  his  writing  or 
looking  up).  Quite  sure,  thank  you.  SaranofF  and  I 
will  manage  it. 

Sergius  {grimly).  Yes:  we'll  manage  it.  He  finds 
out  what  to  do ;  draws  up  the  orders ;  and  I  sign  'em. 
Division  of  labour,  Major.  {Bluntschli  passes  him  a  pa- 
per.) Another  one?  Thank  you.  {He  plants  the  papers 
squarely  before  him;  sets  his  chair  carefully  parallel  to 
them;  and  signs  with  the  air  of  a  man  resolutely  per- 
forming  a  difficult  and  dangerous  feat.)  This  hand  is 
more  accustomed  to  the  sword  than  to  the  pen. 

Petkoff.  It's  very  good  of  you,  Bluntschli,  it  is 
indeed,  to  let  yourself  be  put  upon  in  this  way.  Now 
are  you  quite  sure  I  can  do  nothing? 

Catherine  {in  a  low,  warning  tone).  You  can  stop 
interrupting,    Paul. 

Petkoff  {starting  and  looking  round  at  her).  Eh? 
Oh !  Quite  right,  my  love,  quite  right.  {He  takes  his 
newspaper  up,  but  lets  it  drop  again.)  Ah,  you  haven't 
been  campaigning,  Catherine:  you  don't  know  how  pleas- 
ant it  is  for  us  to  sit  here,  after  a  good  lunch,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  enjcj^  ourselves.  There's  only  one 
thing  I  want  to  make  me  thoroughly  comfortable. 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  51 

Catherine.     What  is  that? 

Petkoff.  My  old  coat.  I'm  not  at  home  in  this  one: 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  on  parade. 

Catherine.  My  dear  Paul,  how  absurd  you  are  about 
that  old  coat!  It  must  be  hanging  in  the  blue  closet 
where  you  left  it. 

Petkoff.  My  dear  Catherine^  I  tell  you  I've  looked 
there.  Am  I  to  believe  my  own  eyes  or  not?  (Cath- 
erine quietly  rises  and  presses  the  button  of  the  electric 
bell  by  the  fireplace.)  What  are  you  shewing  off  that 
bell  for.  (She  looks  at  him  majestically,  and  silently 
resumes  her  chair  and  her  needlework.)  My  dear:  if 
you  think  the  obstinacy  of  your  sex  can  make  a  coat  out 
of  two  old  dressing  gowns  of  Raina's,  your  waterproof, 
and  my  mackintosh,  you're  mistaken.  That's  exactly 
what  the  blue  closet  contains  at  present.  (^Nicola  pre- 
sents himself.) 

Catherine  (unmoved  by  Petkoff's  sally).  Nicola: 
go  to  the  blue  closet  and  bring  your  master's  old  coat  here 
— the  braided  one  he  usually  wears  in  the  house. 

Nicola.     Yes,  madam.      (Nicola  goes  out.) 

Petkoff.     Catherine. 

Catherine.     Yes,  Paul? 

Petkoff.  I  bet  you  any  piece  of  jewellery  you  like 
to  order  from  Sophia  against  a  week's  housekeeping 
money,  that  the  coat  isn't  there. 

Catherine.     Done,  Paul. 

Petkoff  (excited  by  the  prospect  of  a  gamble). 
Come:  here's  an  opportunity  for  some  sport.  Who'll 
bet  on  it?        Bluntschli:  I'll  give  you  six  to  one. 

Bluntschli  (imperturbably).  It  would  be  robbing 
you.  Major.  Madame  is  sure  to  be  right.  (Without  look- 
ing up,  he  passes  another  batch  of  papers  to  Sergius.) 

Sergius  (also  excited).  Bravo,  Switzerland  !  Major: 
I  bet  my  best  charger  against  an  Arab  mare  for  Raina 
that  Nicola  finds  the  coat  in  the  blue  closet. 

Petkoff  (eagerly).     Your  best  char 


52  Arms  and  the  Man  Acr  III 

Catherine  {hastily  interrupting  him^.  Don't  be 
foolish,  Paul.  An  Arabian  mare  will  cost  you  50,000 
levas. 

Raina  {suddenly  coming  out  of  her  picturesque  rev- 
ery^.  Really,  mother,  if  you  are  going  to  take  the 
jewellery,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  grudge  me  my 
Arab. 

(Nicola  comes  back  with  the  coat  and  brings  it  to 
Petkoff,  who  can  hardly  believe  his  eyes.) 

Catherine.     Where  was  it,  Nicola? 

Nicola.     Hanging  in  the  blue  closet,  madam. 

Petkoff.     Well,   I   am  d 

Catherine  {stopping  him),     Paul! 

Petkoff.  I  could  have  sworn  it  wasn't  there.  Age 
is  beginning  to  tell  on  me.  I'm  getting  hallucinations. 
{To  Nicola.)  Here:  help  me  to  change.  Excuse  me, 
Bluntschli.  {He  begins  changing  coats,  Nicola  acting 
as  valet.)  Remember:  I  didn't  take  that  bet  of  yours, 
Sergius.  You'd  better  give  Raina  that  Arab  steed  your- 
self, since  you've  roused  her  expectations.  Eh,  Raina? 
{lie  looks  round  at  her;  but  she  is  again  rapt  in  the 
landscape.  With  a  little  gush  of  paternal  affection  and 
pride,  he  points  her  out  to  them  and  says)  She's  dream- 
ing, as  usual. 

Sergius.     Assuredly  she  shall  not  be  the  loser. 

Petkoff.  So  much  the  better  for  her.  /  shan't 
come  off  so  cheap,  I  expect.  {The  change  is  now  com- 
plete. Nicola  goes  out  with  the  discarded  coat.)  Ah, 
now  I  feel  at  home  at  last.  {He  sits  down  and  takes 
his  newspaper  with  a  grunt  of  relief.) 

Bluntschli  {to  Sergius,  handing  a  paper).  That's 
the  last  order. 

Petkoff  {jumping  up).     What!  finished? 

Bluntschli.  Finished.  {Petkoff  goes  beside  Ser- 
gius; looks  curiously  over  his  left  shoulder  as  he  signs; 
and  says  with  childlike  envy)  Haven't  you  anything  for 
me  to  sign? 


Act  in  Arms  and  the  Man  53 

Bluntschli.     Not  necessary.     His  signature  will  do. 
Petkoff.     Ah,  well,   I  think  we've  done  a  thunder- 
ing good  day's  work.      {He  goes  away  from  the  table.) 
Can  I  do  anything  more? 

Bluntschli.  You  had  better  both  see  the  fellows 
that  are  to  take  these,  {To  Sergius.)  Pack  them  off  at 
once;  and  shew  them  that  I've  marked  on  the  orders  the 
time  they  should  hand  them  in  by.  Tell  them  that  if 
they  stop  to  drink  or  tell  stories — if  they're  five  minutes 
late,  they'll  have  the  skin  taken  off  their  backs. 

Sergius  {rising  indignantly).  I'll  say  so.  And  if 
one  of  them  is  man  enough  to  spit  in  my  face  for  in- 
sulting him,  I'll  buy  his  discharge  and  give  him  a 
pension.  {He  strides  out,  his  humanity  deeply  out- 
raged. ) 

Bluntschli  {confidentially).  Just  see  that  he  talks 
to  them  properly.  Major,  will  you? 

Petkoff  {officiously).  Quite  right,  Bluntschli,  quite 
right.  I'll  see  to  it.  {He  goes  to  the  door  importantly, 
but  hesitates  on  the  threshold.)  By  the  bye,  Catherine, 
you  may  as  well  come,  too.  They'll  be  far  more  fright- 
ened of  you  than  of  me. 

Catherine  {putting  down  her  embroidery).  I  dare- 
say I  had  better.  You  will  only  splutter  at  them.  {She 
goes  out,  Petkoff  holding  the  door  for  her  and  following 
her.) 

Bluntschli.  What  a  country !  They  make  cannons 
(5ut  of  cherry  trees ;  and  the  officers  send  for  their  wives 
to  keep  discipline!  {He  begins  to  fold  and  docket  the 
papers.  Raina,  who  has  risen  from  the  divan,  strolls 
down  the  room  with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her,  and 
looks  mischievously  at  him.) 

Raina.  You  look  ever  so  much  nicer  than  when  we 
Last  met.  {He  looks  up,  surprised.)  What  have  you 
done  to  yourself? 

Bluntschli.  Washed;  brushed;  good  night'3  sleep 
Wid  breakfast.     That's  all. 


54  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

Raina.     Did  you  get  back  safely  that  morning? 

Bluntschli.     Quite,  thanks. 

Raina.  Were  they  angry  with  you  for  running  away 
from  Sergius's  charge.'' 

Bluntschli.  No,  they  were  glad;  because  they'd  all 
just  run  away  themselves. 

Raina  (going  to  the  table,  and  leaning  over  it  towards 
him).  It  must  have  made  a  lovely  story  for  them — all 
that  about  me  and  my  room. 

Bluntschli.  Capital  story.  But  I  only  told  it  to 
one  of  them — a  particular  friend. 

Raina.  On  whose  discretion  you  could  absolutely 
rely  ? 

Bluntschli.     Absolutely. 

Raina.  Hm!  He  told  it  all  to  my  father  and  Ser- 
gius  the  day  you  exchanged  the  prisoners.  {She  turns 
arvay  and  strolls  carelessly  across  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room.) 

Bluntschli  {deeply  concerned  and  half  incredulous). 
No !  you  don't  mean  that,  do  you  ? 

Raina  (turning,  with  szidden  earnestness).  I  do  in- 
deed. But  they  don't  know  that  it  was  in  this  house  that 
you  hid.  If  Sergius  knew,  he  would  challenge  you  and 
kill  you  in  a  duel. 

Bluntschli.     Bless  me !  then  don't  tell  him. 

Raina  (full  of  reproach  for  his  levity).  Can  you 
realize  what  it  is  to  me  to  deceive  him.^  I  want  to  be 
quite  perfect  with  Sergius — no  meanness,  no  smallness, 
no  deceit.  My  relation  to  him  is  the  one  really  beautiful 
and  noble  part  of  my  life.  I  hope  you  can  understand 
that. 

Bluntschli  (sceptically).  You  mean  that  you 
wouldn't  like  him  to  find  out  that  the  story  about  the  ice 
pudding  was  a — a — a —     You  know. 

Raina  (wincing).  Ah,  don't  talk  of  it  in  that  flip- 
pant way.  I  lied:  I  know  it.  But  I  did  it  to  save 
your  life.     He  would  have  killed  you.     That  was  the 


Act  m  Arms  and  the  INIan  55 

second  time  I  ever  uttered  a  falsehood.  (Bluntschli 
rises  quickly  and  looks  doubtfully  and  somewhat  severely 
at  her.)     Do  you  remember  the  first  time? 

Bluntschli.     I!     No.     Was  I  present? 

Raina.  Yes;  and  I  told  the  officer  who  was  search- 
ing for  you  that  you  were  not  present. 

Bluntschli.     True.      I   should   have  remembered  it. 

Raina  (greatly  encouraged).  Ah^  it  is  natural  that 
you  should  forget  it  first.  It  cost  you  nothing:  it  cost 
me  a  lie ! — a  lie ! !  (She  sits  down  on  the  ottoman,  look- 
ing straight  before  her  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her 
knee.  Bluntschli,  quite  touched,  goes  to  the  ottoman  with 
a  particularly  reassuring  and  considerate  air,  and  sits 
down  beside  her.) 

Bluntschli.  My  dear  young  lady,  don't  let  this 
worry  you.  Remember:  I'm  a  soldier.  Now  what  are  the 
two  things  that  happen  to  a  soldier  so  often  that  he 
comes  to  think  nothing  of  them?  One  is  hearing  people 
tell  lies  (Raina  recoils) :  the  other  is  getting  his  life 
saved  in  all  sorts  of  ways  by  all  sorts  of  people. 

Raina  (rising  in  indignant  protest).  And  so  he  be- 
oomes  a  creature  incapable  of  faith  and  of  gratitude. 

Bluntschli  (making  a  wry  face).  Do  you  like 
gratitude?  I  don't.  If  pity  is  akin  to  love,  gratitude  is 
akin  to  the  other  thing. 

Raina.  Gratitude!  (Turning  on  him.)  If  you  are 
incapable  of  gratitude  you  are  incapable  of  any  noble 
sentiment.  Even  animals  are  grateful.  Oh,  I  see  now 
exactly  what  you  think  of  me !  You  were  not  surprised 
to  hear  me  lie.  To  you  it  was  something  I  probably  did 
every  day — every  hour.  That  is  how  men  think  of 
women.     (She  walks  up  the  room  melodramatically.) 

Bluntschli  (dubiously).  There's  reason  in  every- 
thing. You  said  you'd  told  only  two  lies  in  your  whole 
life.  Dear  young  lady:  isn't  that  rather  a  short  al- 
lowance? I'm  quite  a  straightforward  man  myself;  but 
it  wouldn't  last  me  a  whole  morning. 


56  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  m 

Rain  A  (staring  haughtily  at  him).  Do  you  know, 
sir,  that  you  are  insulting  me? 

Bluntschli.  I  can't  help  it.  When  you  get  into 
that  noble  attitude  and  speak  in  that  thrilling  voice,  I 
admire  you;  but  I  find  it  impossible  to  believe  a  single 
word  you  say. 

Raina   {superbly').     Captain  Bluntschli! 

Bluntschli  (unmoved).     Yes? 

Raina  (coming  a  little  towards  him,  as  if  she  could 
not  believe  her  senses).  Do  you  mean  what  you  said 
just  now?     Do  you  know  what  you  said  just  now? 

Bluntschli.      I  do. 

Raina  (gasping).  I!  I!!!  (She  points  to  herself 
incredulously ,  meaning  "  1,  Raina  Petkoff,  tell  lies!  " 
He  meets  her  gaze  unflinchingly.  She  suddenly  sits 
down  beside  him,  and  adds,  with  a  complete  change  of 
manner  from  the  heroic  to  the  familiar)  How  did  you 
find  me  out? 

Bluntschli  (promptly).  Instinct,  dear  young  lady. 
Instinct,  and  experience  of  the  world. 

Raina  (wonderingly).  Do  you  know,  you  are  the 
first  man  I  ever  met  who  did  not  take  me  seriously? 

Bluntschli.  You  mean,  don't  you,  that  I  am  the 
first  man  that  has  ever  taken  you  quite  seriously? 

Raina.  Yes,  I  suppose  I  do  mean  that.  (Cosily, 
quite  at  her  ease  with  him.)  How  strange  it  is  to  be 
talked  to  in  such  a  way!  You  know,  I've  always  gone 
on  like  that — I  mean  the  noble  attitude  and  the  thrilling 
voice.  I  did  it  when  I  was  a  tiny  child  to  my  nurse. 
She  believed  in  it.  I  do  it  before  my  parents.  They 
believe  in  it.     I  do  it  before  Sergius.     He  believes  in  it. 

Bluntschli.  Yes:  he's  a  little  in  that  line  himself, 
isn't  he? 

Raina  (startled) .     Do  you  think  so? 

Bluntschli.     You  know  him  better  than  I  do. 

Raina.  I  wonder — I  wonder  is  he?  If  I  thought 
that — !     (Discouraged.)   Ah,  well,  what  does  it  matter,^ 


Act  m  Arms  and  the  Man  57 

I  suppose^  now  that  you've  found  me  out,  you  despise 
me. 

Bluntschli  (^warmly,  rising).  No,  my  dear  young 
lady,  no,  no,  no  a  thousand  times.  It's  part  of  your 
youth — part  of  your  charm.  I'm  like  all  the  rest  of 
them — the  nurse — your  parents — Sergius:  I'm  your  in- 
fatuated admirer. 

Rain  A  {pleased).     Really.'* 

Bluntschli  {slapping  his  breast  smartly  with  his 
hand,  German  fashion).  Hand  aufs  Herz !  Really  and 
truly. 

Raina  {very  happy).  But  what  did  you  think  of  me 
jfor  giving  you  my  portrait.'' 

Bluntschli  {astonished).  Your  portrait!  You 
never  gave  me  your  portrait. 

Raina  {quickly).  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  never 
got  it.f* 

Bluntschli.  No.  {He  sits  down  beside  her,  with 
renewed  interest,  and  says,  with  some  complacency.) 
When  did  you  send  it  to  me} 

Raina  {indignantly) .  I  did  not  send  it  to  you.  {She 
turns  her  head  away,  and  adds,  reluctantly.)  It  was  in 
the  pocket  of  that  coat. 

Bluntschli  {pursing  his  lips  and  rounding  his  eyes). 
Oh-o-oh!     I  never  found  it.     It  must  be  there  still. 

Raina  {springing  up).  There  still! — for  my  father 
to  find  the  first  time  he  puts  his  hand  in  his  pocket! 
Oh,  how  could  you  be  so  stupid.'' 

Bluntschli  {rising  also).  It  doesn't  matter:  it's 
only  a  photograph:  how  can  he  tell  who  it  was  intended 
for?     Tell  him  he  put  it  there  himself. 

Raina  {impatiently).  Yes,  that  is  so  clever — so 
clever  !     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Bluntschli.  Ah,  I  see.  You  wrote  something  on  it. 
That  was  rash ! 

Raina  {annoyed  almost  to  tears).  Oh,  to  have  done 
such  a  thing  for  you,   who  care  no  more — except  to 


58  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  IU 

laugh  at  me — oh!  Are  you  sure  nobody  has  touched 
it? 

Bluntschli.  Well,  I  can't  be  quite  sure.  You  see 
I  couldn't  carry  it  about  with  me  all  the  time:  one  can't 
take  much  luggage  on  active  service. 

Raina.     What  did  you  do  with  it? 

Bluntschli.  When  I  got  through  to  Peerot  I  had 
to  put  it  in  safe  keeping  somehow.  I  thought  of  the 
railway  cloak  room;  but  that's  the  surest  place  to  get 
looted  in  modern  warfare.     So  I  pawned  it. 

Raina.     Pawned  it!!! 

Bluntschli.  I  know  it  doesn't  sound  nice;  but  it 
was  much  the  safest  plan.  I  redeemed  it  the  day  before 
yesterday.  Heaven  only  knows  whether  the  pawnbroker 
cleared  out  the  pockets  or  not. 

Raina  {furious — throwing  the  words  right  into  his 
face).  You  have  a  low,  shopkeeping  mind.  You  think 
of  things  that  would  never  come  into  a  gentleman's  head. 

Bluntschli  (phlegmatically).  That's  the  Swiss  na- 
tional character,  dear  lady. 

Raina.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  never  met  you.  (She 
flounces  away  and  sits  at  the  window  fuming.) 

Louka  comes  in  with  a  heap  of  letters  and  telegrams 
on  her  salver,  and  crosses,  with  her  bold,  free  gait,  to 
the  table.  Her  left  sleeve  is  looped  up  to  the  shoulder 
with  a  brooch,  shewing  her  naked  arm,  with  a  broad  gilt 
bracelet  covering  the  bruise. 

Louka  {to  Bluntschli).  For  you.  {She  empties  the 
salver  recklessly  on  the  table.)  The  messenger  is  wait- 
ing. {She  is  determined  not  to  be  civil  to  a  Servian, 
even  if  she  must  bring  him  his  letters.) 

Bluntschli  {to  Raina).  Will  you  excuse  me:  the 
last  postal  delivery  that  reached  me  was  three  weeks  ago. 
These  are  the  subsequent  accumulations.  Four  telegrams 
— a  week  old.     {He  opens  one.)     Oho!    Bad  news! 

Raina  {rising  and  advancing  a  little  remorsefully). 
Bad  news? 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  59 

Bluntschli.  My  father's  dead.  {He  looks  at  the 
telegram  with  his  lips  pursed,  musing  on  the  unexpected 
change  in  his  arrangements.^ 

Raina.     Oh,  how  very  sad ! 

Bluntschli.  Yes:  I  shall  have  to  start  for  home  in 
an  hour.  He  has  left  a  lot  of  big  hotels  behind  him 
to  be  looked  after.  {Takes  up  a  heavy  letter  in  a  long 
blue  envelope.)  Here's  a  whacking  letter  from  the 
family  solicitor.  {He  pulls  out  the  enclosures  and 
glances  over  them.)  Great  Heavens !  Seventy !  Two 
hundred!  {In  a  crescendo  of  dismay.)  Four  hundred! 
Four  thousand!!  Nine  thousand  six  hundred !! !  What 
on  earth  shall  I  do  with  them  all? 

Raina   {timidly).     Nine  thousand  hotels? 

Bluntschli.  Hotels !  Nonsense.  If  you  only 
knew! — oh,  it's  too  ridiculous!  Excuse  me:  I  must  give 
my  fellow  orders  about  starting.  {He  leaves  the  room 
hastily,  with  the  documents  in  his  hand.) 

Louka  {tauntingly).  He  has  not  much  heart,  that 
Swiss,  though  he  is  so  fond  of  the  Servians.  He  has 
not  a  word  of  grief  for  his  poor  father. 

Raina  {bitterly).  Grief! — a  man  who  has  been  doing 
nothing  but  killing  people  for  years !  What  does  he 
care?  What  does  any  soldier  care?  {She  goes  to  the 
door,  evidently  restraining  her  tears  with  difflculty.) 

LouKA.  Major  SaranofF  has  been  fighting,  too;  and 
he  has  plenty  of  heart  left.  {Raina,  at  the  door,  looks 
haughtily  at  her  and  goes  out.)  Aha!  I  thought  you 
wouldn't  get  much  feeling  out  of  your  soldier.  {She  is 
following  Raina  when  Nicola  enters  with  an  armful  of 
logs  for  the  fire.) 

Nicola  {grinning  amorously  at  her).  I've  been  try- 
ing all  the  afternon  to  get  a  minute  alone  with  you,  my 
girl.  {His  countenance  changes  as  he  notices  her  arm.) 
Why,  what  fashion  is  that  of  wearing  your  sleeve,  child? 

LouKA    {proudly).     My  own   fashion. 

Nicola.     Indeed!     If  the  mistress  catches  you,  she'll 


60  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

talk  to  you.  {He  throws  the  logs  down  on  the  ottoman, 
and  sits  comfortably  beside  them.) 

LouKA.  Is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  take  it 
on  yourself  to  talk  to  me? 

Nicola.  Come:  don't  be  so  contrary  with  me.  I've 
some  good  news  for  you.  {He  takes  out  some  paper 
moneij.  Louha,  with  an  eager  gleam  in  her  eyes,  comes 
close  to  look  at  it.)  See,  a  twenty  leva  bill!  Sergius 
gave  me  that  out  of  pure  swagger.  A  fool  and  his  money 
are  soon  parted.  There's  ten  levas  more.  The  Swiss 
gave  me  that  for  backing  up  the  mistress's  and  Raina's 
lies  about  him.  He's  no  fool,  he  isn't.  You  should 
have  heard  old  Catherine  downstairs  as  polite  as  you 
please  to  me,  telling  me  not  to  mind  the  Major  being 
a  little  impatient;  for  they  knew  what  a  good  servant 
I  was — after  making  a  fool  and  a  liar  of  me  before 
them  all !  The  twenty  will  go  to  our  savings ;  and  you 
shall  have  the  ten  to  spend  if  you'll  only  talk  to  me 
so  as  to  remind  me  I'm  a  human  being.  I  get  tired 
o^  being  a  servant  occasionally. 

LouKA  {scornfully).  Yes:  sell  your  manhood  for 
thirty  levas,  and  buy  me  for  ten !  Keep  your  money. 
You  were  born  to  be  a  servant.  I  was  not.  When  you 
set  up  your  shop  you  will  only  be  everybody's  servant 
instead  of  somebody's  servant. 

Nicola  {picking  up  his  logs,  and  going  to  the  stove). 
Ah,  wait  till  you  see.  We  shall  have  our  evenings  to  our- 
selves ;  and  I  shall  be  master  in  my  own  house,  I  promise 
you.     {He  throws  the  logs  down  and  kneels  at  the  stove.) 

LouKA.  You  shall  never  be  master  in  mine.  {She 
sits  down  on  Sergius's  chair.) 

Nicola  {turning,  still  on  his  knees,  and  squatting 
down  rather  forlornly,  on  his  calves,  daunted  by  her  im- 
placable disdain).  You  have  a  great  ambition  in  you, 
Louka.  Remember:  if  any  luck  comes  to  you,  it  was  I 
that  made  a  woman  of  you. 

LouKA.     You ! 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  61 

Nicola  (with  dogged  self-assertion).  Yes,  me.  Who 
was  it  made  you  give  up  wearing  a  couple  of  pounds  of 
false  black  hair  on  your  head  and  reddening  your  lips 
and  cheeks  like  any  other  Bulgarian  girl?  I  did.  Who 
taught  you  to  trim  your  nails,  and  keeps  your  hands 
clean,  and  be  dainty  about  yourself,  like  a  fine  Russian 
lady?  Me!  do  you  hear  that?  me!  (She  tosses  her 
head  defiantlt/j  and  he  rises,  illhumoredly ,  adding  more 
coolly)  I've  often  thought  that  if  Raina  were  out  of 
the  way,  and  you  just  a  little  less  of  a  fool  and  Sergius 
just  a  little  more  of  one,  you  might  come  to  be  one  of 
my  grandest  customers,  instead  of  only  being  my  wife 
and  costing  me  money. 

LouKA.  I  believe  you  would  rather  be  my  servant 
than  my  husband.  You  would  make  more  out  of  me.  Oh, 
I  know  that  soul  of  yours. 

Nicola  (going  up  close  to  her  for  greater  emphasis). 
Never  you  mind  my  soul;  but  just  listen  to  my  advice. 
If  you  want  to  be  a  lady,  your  present  behaviour  to 
me  won't  do  at  all,  unless  when  we're  alone.  It's  too 
sharp  and  impudent;  and  impudence  is  a  sort  of 
familiarity:  it  shews  affection  for  me.  And  don't  you 
try  being  high  and  mighty  with  me  either.  You're  like 
all  country  girls :  you  think  it's  genteel  to  treat  a  servant 
the  way  I  treat  a  stable-boy.  That's  only  your  igno- 
rance; and  don't  you  forget  it.  And  don't  be  so  ready 
to  defy  everybody.  Act  as  if  you  expected  to  have 
your  own  way,  not  as  if  you  expected  to  be  ordered 
about.  The  way  to  get  on  as  a  lady  is  the  same  as  the 
way  to  get  on  as  a  servant:  you've  got  to  know  your 
place;  that's  the  secret  of  it.  And  you  may  depend  on 
me  to  know  my  place  if  you  get  promoted.  Think  over 
it,  my  girl.  I'll  stand  by  you:  one  servant  should  always 
stand  by  another. 

LouKA  (rising  impatiently).  Oh,  I  must  behave  in 
my  own  way.  You  take  all  the  courage  out  of  me  with 
your  cold-blooded  wisdom.     Go  and  put  those  logs  on 


62  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

the  fire:  that's  the  sort  of  thing  you  understand.  (Be- 
fore Nicola  can  retort,  Sergius  comes  in.  He  checks 
himself  a  moment  on  seeing  Louka;  then  goes  to  the 
stove.) 

Sergius  (to  Nicola).  I  am  not  in  the  way  of  your 
work^  I  hope. 

Nicola  (in  a  smooth,  elderly  manner).  Oh,  no,  sir, 
thank  you  kindly.  I  was  only  speaking  to  this  foolish 
girl  about  her  habit  of  running  up  here  to  the  library 
whenever  she  gets  a  chance,  to  look  at  the  books.  That's 
the  worst  of  her  education,  sir:  it  gives  her  habits  above 
her  station.  (To  Louka.)  Make  that  table  tidy,  Louka, 
for  the  Major.     (He  goes  out  sedately.) 

Louka,  without  looking  at  Sergius,  begins  to  arrange 
the  papers  on  the  table.  He  crosses  slowly  to  her,  and 
studies  the  arrangement  of  her  sleeve  reflectively. 

Sergius.  Let  me  see:  is  there  a  mark  there.''  (He 
turns  up  the  bracelet  and  sees  the  bruise  made  by  his 
grasp.  She  stands  motionless,  not  looking  at  him:  fas- 
cinated, but  on  her  guard.)     Ffff !     Does  it  hurt? 

Louka.     Yes. 

Sergius.      Shall  I  cure  it? 

Louka  (instantly  withdrawing  herself  proudly,  but 
still  not  looking  at  him).     No.     You  cannot  cure  it  now. 

Sergius  (masterfully).  Quite  sure?  (He  makes  a 
movement  as  if  to  take  her  in  his  arms.) 

Louka.  Don't  trifle  with  me,  please.  An  officer 
should  not  trifle  with  a  servant. 

Sergius  (touching  the  arm  with  a  merciless  stroke  of 
his  forefinger).     That  was  no  trifle,  Louka. 

Louka.  No.  (Looking  at  him  for  the  first  time.) 
Are  you  sorry? 

Sergius  (with  measured  emphasis,  folding  his  arms). 
I  am  never  sorry. 

Louka  (wistfully).  I  wish  I  could  believe  a  man 
could  be  so  unlike  a  woman  as  that.  I  wonder  are  you 
really  a  brave  man? 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  63 

Sergius  (unaffectedly,  relaxing  his  attitude).  Yes: 
I  am  a  brave  man.  My  heart  jumped  like  a  woman's  at 
the  first  shot ;  but  in  the  charge  I  found  that  I  was  brave. 
Yes:  that  at  least  is  real  about  me. 

LouKA.  Did  you  find  in  the  charge  that  the  men 
whose  fathers  are  poor  like  mine  were  any  less  brave 
than  the  men  who  are  rich  like  you? 

Sergius  (with  bitter  levity).  Not  a  bit.  They  all 
slashed  and  cursed  and  yelled  like  heroes,  Psha !  the 
courage  to  rage  and  kill  is  cheap.  I  have  an  English 
bull  terrier  who  has  as  much  of  that  sort  of  courage  as 
the  whole  Bulgarian  nation,  and  the  whole  Russian  na- 
tion at  its  back.  But  he  lets  my  groom  thrash  him,  all 
the  same.  That's  your  soldier  all  over !  No,  Louka, 
your  poor  men  can  cut  throats ;  but  they  are  afraid  of 
their  officers ;  they  put  up  with  insults  and  blows ;  they 
stand  by  and  see  one  another  punished  like  children — 
aye,  and  help  to  do  it  when  they  are  ordered.  And  the 
officers  ! — well  (with  a  short,  bitter  laugh)  I  am  an  officer. 
Oh,  (fervently)  give  me  the  man  who  will  defy  to  the 
death  any  power  on  earth  or  in  heaven  that  sets  itself 
up  against  his  own  will  and  conscience:  he  alone  is  the 
brave  man. 

LouKA.  How  easy  it  is  to  talk !  Men  never  seem 
to  me  to  grow  up:  they  all  have  schoolboy's  ideas.  You 
don't  know  what  true  courage  is. 

Sergius  (ironically).  Indeed!  I  am  willing  to  be 
instructed. 

Louka.  Look  at  me !  how  much  am  I  allowed  to  have 
my  own  will.''  I  have  to  get  your  room  ready  for  you — ■ 
to  sweep  and  dust,  to  fetch  and  carry.  How  could  that 
degrade  me  if  it  did  not  degrade  you  to  have  it  done 
for  you.''  But  (with  subdued  passion)  if  I  were  Empress 
of  Russia,  above  everyone  in  the  world,  then — ah,  then, 
though  according  to  you  I  could  shew  no  courage  at  all; 
you  should  see,  you  should  see. 

Sergius.     What  would  you  do,  most  noble  Empress  ? 


64  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

LouKA.  1  would  marry  the  man  I  loved,  which  no 
other  queen  in  Europe  has  the  courage  to  do.  If  I  loved 
you,  though  you  would  be  as  far  beneath  me  as  I  am 
beneath  you,  I  would  dare  to  be  the  equal  of  my  inferior. 
Would  you  dare  as  much  if  you  loved  me?  No:  if  you 
felt  the  beginnings  of  love  for  me  you  would  not  let 
it  grow.  You  dare  not:  you  would  marry  a  rich  man's 
daughter  because  you  would  be  afraid  of  what  other 
people  would  say  of  you. 

Sergius  (carried  arvay^.  You  lie:  it  is  not  so,  by  all 
the  stars !  If  I  loved  you,  and  I  were  the  Czar  himself, 
I  would  set  you  on  the  throne  by  my  side.  You  know 
that  I  love  another  woman,  a  woman  as  high  above  you 
as  heaven  is  above  earth.     And  you  are  jealous  of  her. 

LouKA.  I  have  no  reason  to  be.  She  will  never 
marry  you  now.  The  man  I  told  you  of  has  come  back. 
She  will  marry  the  Swiss. 

Sergius  {recoiling).     The  Swiss! 

LouKA.  A  man  worth  ten  of  you.  Then  you  can 
come  to  me;  and  I  will  refuse  you.  You  are  not  good 
enough  for  me.     {She  turns  to  the  door.) 

Sergius  (springing  after  her  and  catching  her  fiercely 
in  his  arms).  I  will  kill  the  Swiss;  and  afterwards  I 
will  do  as  I  please  with  you. 

LouKA  (in  his  arms,  passive  and  steadfast).  The 
Swiss  will  kill  you,  perhaps.  He  has  beaten  you  in  love. 
He  may  beat  you  in  war. 

Sergius  (tormentedly) .  Do  you  think  I  believe  that 
she — she!  whose  worst  thoughts  are  higher  than  your 
best  ones,  is  capable  of  trifling  with  another  man  behind 
my  back? 

LouKA.  Do  you  think  she  would  believe  the  Swiss 
if  he  told  her  now  that  I  am  in  your  arms  ? 

Sergivs  (releasing  her  in  despair).  Damnation!  Oh, 
damnation!  Mockery,  mockery  everywhere:  everything 
I  think  is  mocked  by  everything  I  do.  (He  strikes  him- 
self  frantically    on    the    breast.)      Coward,    liar,    fool! 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  65 

Shall  I  kill  myself  like  a  man,  or  live  and  pretend  to 
laugh  at  myself?  (She  again,  turns  to  go.)  Louka! 
{She  stops  near  the  door.)  Remember:  you  belong  to 
me. 

Louka   (quietly).     What  does  that  mean — an  insult? 

Sergius  (commandingly).  It  means  that  you  love 
me,  and  that  I  have  had  you  here  in  my  arms,  and  will 
perhaps  have  you  there  again.  Whether  that  is  an  insult 
I  neither  know  nor  care:  take  it  as  you  please.  But 
(vehemently)  1  will  not  be  a  coward  and  a  trifler.  If 
I  choose  to  love  you,  I  dare  marry  you,  in  spite  of  all 
Bulgaria.  If  these  hands  ever  touch  you  again,  they 
shall  touch  my  affianced  bride. 

Louka.  We  shall  see  whether  you  dare  keep  your 
word.     But  take  care.     I  will  not  wait  long. 

Sergius  (again  folding  his  arms  and  standing  mO' 
tionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room).  Yes,  we  shall  see. 
And  you  shall  wait  my  pleasure. 

Bluntschli,  much  preoccupied,  rvith  his  papers  still  in 
his  hand,  enters,  leaving  the  door  open  for  Louka  to  go 
out.  He  goes  across  to  the  table,  glancing  at  her  as  he 
passes.  Sergius,  without  altering  his  resolute  attitude, 
watches  him  steadily.  Louka  goes  out,  leaving  the  door 
open. 

Bluntschli  (absently,  sitting  at  the  table  as  before, 
and  putting  down  his  papers).  That's  a  remarkable 
looking  young  woman. 

Sergius  (gravely,  without  moving).  Captain  Blunt- 
schli. 

Bluntschli.     Eh? 

Sergius.  You  have  deceived  me.  You  are  my  rival. 
I  brook  no  rivals.  At  six  o'clock  I  shall  be  in  the  drilling- 
ground  on  the  Klissoura  road,  alone,  on  horseback,  with 
my  sabre.     Do  you  understand? 

Bluntschli  (staring,  but  sitting  quite  at  his  ease). 
Oh,  thank  you:  that's  a  cavalry  man's  proposal.  I'm 
in  the  artillery;  and  I  have  the  choice  of  weapons.     If 


6?)  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

I  go,  I  shall  take  a  machine  gun.  And  there  shall  be 
no  mistake  about  the  cartridges  this  time. 

Sergius  (flushing,  but  with  deadly  coldness).  Take 
care,  sir.  It  is  not  our  custom  in  Bulgaria  to  allow  in- 
vitations of  that  kind  to  be  trifled  with. 

Bluntschli  (warmly).  Pooh!  don't  talk  to  me  about 
Bulgaria.  You  don't  know  what  fighting  is.  But  have 
it  your  own  way.  Bring  your  sabre  along.  I'll  meet 
you. 

Sergius  (fiercely  delighted  to  find  his  opponent  a  man 
of  spirit).  Well  said,  Switzer.  Shall  I  lend  you  my 
best  horse  ? 

Bluntschli.  No:  damn  your  horse! — thank  you  all 
the  same,  my  dear  fellow.  (Raina  comes  in,  and  hears 
the  next  sentence.)  I  shall  fight  you  on  foot.  Horse- 
back's too  dangerous:  I  don't  want  to  kill  you  if  I  can 
help  it. 

Raina  (hurrying  forward  anxiously).  I  have  heard 
what  Captain  Bluntschli  said,  Sergius.  You  are  going 
to  fight.  Why.^  (Sergius  turns  away  in  silence,  and 
goes  to  the  stove,  where  he  stands  watching  her  as  she 
continues,  to  Bluntschli)     What  about? 

Bluntschli.  I  don't  know:  he  hasn't  told  me.  Bet- 
ter not  interfere,  dear  young  lady.  No  harm  will  be 
done:  I've  often  acted  as  sword  instructor.  He  won't 
be  able  to  touch  me;  and  I'll  not  hurt  him.  It  will  save 
explanations.  In  the  morning  I  shall  be  off  home;  and 
you'll  never  see  me  or  hear  of  me  again.  You  and  he  will 
then  make  it  up  and  live  happily  ever  after. 

Raina  (turning  away  deeply  hurt,  almost  with  a  sob 
in  her  voice).     I  never  said  I  wanted  to  see  you  again. 

Sergius  (striding  forward).  Ha!  That  is  a  confes- 
»ion. 

Raina  (haughtily).     What  do  you  mean? 

Sergius.     You  love  that  man ! 

Raina  (scandalized) .     Sergius  ! 

Sergius.     You  allow  him  to  make  love  to  you  behind 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  67 

my  back,  just  as  you  accept  me  as  your  affianced  husband 
behind  his.  Bluntschli :  you  knew  our  relations ;  and  you 
deceived  me.  It  is  for  that  that  I  call  you  to  account, 
not  for  having  received  favours  that  I  never  enjoyed. 

^LVNTScnt,!  (jumping  up  indignanth/).  Stuff!  Rub- 
bish !  I  have  received  no  favours.  Why,  the  young  lady 
doesn't  even  know  whether  I'm  married  or  not. 

Raina  (forgetting  herself).  Oh!  (Collapsing  on 
the  ottoman.)     Are  you? 

Sergius.  You  see  the  young  lady's  concern,  Cap}--Ain 
Bluntschli.  Denial  is  useless.  You  have  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  being  received  in  her  own  room,  late  at 
night 

Bluntschli  (interrupting  him  pepperily).  Yes;  you 
blockhead !  She  received  me  with  a  pistol  at  her  head. 
Your  cavalry  were  at  my  heels.  I'd  have  blown  out  her 
brains  if  she'd  uttered  a  cry. 

Sergius  (taken  aback).  Blimtschli !  Raina:  is  this 
true  ? 

Raina  (rising  in  wrathful  majesty).  Oh,  how  dare 
you,  how  dare  you? 

Bluntschli.  Apologize,  man,  apologize!  (He  re- 
sumes his  seat  at  the  table.) 

Sergius  (with  the  old  measured  emphasis,  folding  his 
arms).     I  never  apologize. 

Raina  (passionately).  This  is  the  doing  of  that 
friend  of  yours.  Captain  Bluntschli.  It  is  he  who  is 
spreading  this  horrible  story  about  me.  (She  walks 
about  excitedly.) 

Bluntschli.     No:  he's  dead — burnt  alive. 

Raina  (stopping,  shocked).     Burnt  alive! 

Bluntschli.  Shot  in  the  hip  in  a  wood-yard. 
Couldn't  drag  himself  out.  Your  fellows'  shells  set  the 
timber  on  fire  and  burnt  him,  with  half  a  dozen  other 
poor  devils  in  the  same  predicament. 

Raina.     How  horrible ! 

Sergius.     And  how  ridiculous  !     Oh,  war !  war !  the 


68  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  in 

dream  of  patriots  and  heroes !  A  fraud,  Bluntschli,  a 
hollow  shain,  like  love. 

Rain  A  (outraged).  Like  love!  You  say  that  before 
me. 

Bluntschli.  Come,  Saranoff:  that  matter  is  ex- 
plained. 

Sergius.  a  hollow  sham,  I  say.  Would  you  have 
come  back  here  if  nothing  had  passed  between  you,  ex- 
cept at  the  muzzle  of  your  pistol?  Raina  is  mistaken 
about  our  friend  who  was  burnt.  He  was  not  my  in- 
formant. 

Raina.  Who  then.^  (Suddenly  guessing  the  truth.) 
Ah,  Louka !  my  maid,  my  servant !  You  were  with  her 
this  morning  all  that  time  after — after —  Oh,  what  sort 
of  god  is  this  I  have  been  worshipping!  (He  meets  her 
gaze  with  sardonic  enjoyment  of  her  disenchantment. 
Angered  all  the  more,  she  goes  closer  to  him,  and  says, 
in  a  lower,  intenser  tone)  Do  you  know  that  I  looked 
out  of  the  window  as  I  went  upstairs,  to  have  another 
sight  of  my  hero;  and  I  saw  something  that  I  did  not 
understand  then.  I  know  now  that  you  were  making  love 
to  her. 

Sergius  (with  grim  humor).     You  saw  that? 

Raina.  Only  too  well.  (She  turns  away,  and  throws 
herself  on  the  divan  under  the  centre  window,  quite  over- 
come.) 

Sergius  (cynically).  Raina:  our  romance  is  shat- 
tered.    Life's  a  farce. 

Bluntschli  (to  Raina,  goodhumoredly) .  You  see: 
he's  found  himself  out  now. 

Sergius.  Bluntschli:  I  have  allowed  you  to  call  me 
a  blockhead.  You  may  now  call  me  a  coward  as  well.  I 
refuse  to  fight  you.     Do  you  know  why? 

Bluntschli.  No;  but  it  doesn't  matter.  I  didn't 
ask  the  reason  when  you  cried  on;  and  I  don't  ask  the 
reason  now  that  you  cry  off.  I'm  a  professional  soldier. 
I  fight  when  I  have  to,  and  am  very  glad  to  get  out  of 


Act  in  Arms  and  the  JNIan  69 

it  when  I  haven't  to.     You're  only  an  amateur:  you  think 
fighting's  an  amusement. 

Sergius.  You  shall  hear  the  reason  all  the  same,  my 
professional.  The  reason  is  that  it  takes  two  men — ■ 
real  men — men  of  heart,  blood  and  honor — to  make  a 
genuine  combat.  I  could  no  more  fight  with  you  than  I 
could  make  love  to  an  ugly  woman.  You've  no  magnet- 
ism: you're  not  a  man,  you're  a  machine. 

Bluntschli  (apologetically).  Quite  true,  quite  true. 
I  always  was  that  sort  of  chap.  I'm  very  sorry.  But 
now  that  you've  found  that  life  isn't  a  farce,  but  some- 
thing quite  sensible  and  serious,  what  further  obstacle 
is  there  to  your  happiness.^ 

Raina  (rising).  You  are  very  solicitous  about  my 
happiness  and  his.  Do  you  forget  his  new  love — Louka.'* 
It  is  not  you  that  he  must  fight  now,  but  his  rivt.!, 
Nicola. 

Sergius.      Rival ! !       (Striking    his    forehead. ) 

Raina.     Did  you  not  know  that  they  are  engaged.'' 

Sergius.  Nicola !  Are  fresh  abysses  opening !  Nico- 
la ! ! 

Raina  (sarcastically).  A  shocking  sacrifice,  isn't  it.'' 
Such  beauty,  such  intellect,  such  modesty,  wasted  on  a 
middle-aged  servant  man !  Really,  Sergius,  you  cannot 
stand  by  and  allow  such  a  thing.  It  would  be  unworthy 
of  your  chivalry. 

Sergius  (losing  all  self-control).  Viper!  Viper! 
(He  rushes  to  and  fro,  raging.) 

Bluntschli.  Look  here,  Saranoff ;  you're  getting  the 
worst  of  this. 

Raina  (getting  angrier).  Do  you  realize  what  he  has 
done.  Captain  Bluntschli.^  He  has  set  this  girl  as  a 
spy  on  us;  and  her  reward  is  that  he  makes  love  to  her. 

Sergius.      False !     Monstrous ! 

Raina.  Monstrous!  (Confronting  him).  Do  you 
deny  that  she  told  you  about  Captain  Bluntschli  being 
in  my  room.'' 


70  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

Sergius.     No;  but 


Raina  (interrupting).  Do  you  deny  that  you  were 
making  love  to  her  when  she  told  you? 

Sergius.,     No;  but  I  tell  you 

Raina  (cutting  him  short  contemptuously) .  It  is  un- 
necessary to  tell  us  anything  more.  That  is  quite  enough 
for  us.  (She  turns  her  back  on  him  and  sweeps  majesti- 
cally back  to  the  window.) 

Bluntschli  (quietly,  as  Sergius,  in  an  agony  of  mor- 
tification, sinks  on  the  ottoman,  clutching  his  averted 
head  between  his  fists).  I  told  you  you  were  getting  the 
worst  of  it,  Saranoff. 

Sergius.      Tiger  cat! 

Raina  (running  excitedly  to  Bluntschli).  You  hear 
this  man  calling  me  names,  Captain  Bluntschli? 

Bluntschli.  What  else  can  he  do,  dear  lady?  He 
must  defend  himself  somehow.  Come  (very  persua- 
sively), don't  quarrel.  What  good  does  it  do?  (Raina, 
with  a  gasp,  sits  down  on  the  ottoman,  and  after  a  vain 
effort  to  look  vexedly  at  Bluntschli,  she  falls  a  victim  to 
her  sense  of  humor,  and  is  attacked  with  a  disposition  to 
laugh.) 

Sergius.  Engaged  to  Nicola!  (He  rises.)  Ha!  ha! 
(Going  to  the  stove  and  standing  ?vith  his  back  to  it.) 
Ah,  well,  Bluntschli,  you  are  right  to  take  this  huge 
imposture  of  a  world  coolly. 

Raina  (to  Bluntschli  with  an  intuitive  guess  at  his 
state  of  mind).  I  daresay  you  think  us  a  couple  of 
grown  up  babies,  don't  you? 

Sergius  (grinning  a  little).  He  does,  he  does.  Swiss 
civilization  nursetending  Bulgarian  barbarism,  eh? 

Bluntschli  (blushing).  Not  at  all,  I  assure  you. 
I'm  only  very  glad  to  get  you  two  quieted.  There  now, 
let's  be  pleasant  and  talk  it  over  in  a  friendly  way. 
Where  is  this  other  young  lady? 

Raina.     Listening  at  the  door,  probably. 

Sergius  (shivering  as  if  a  bullet  had  struck  him,  and 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  71 

speaking  with  quiet  hut  deep  indignation).  I  will  prove 
that  that,  at  least,  is  a  calumny.  {He  goes  with  dignity 
to  the  door  and  opens  it.  A  yell  of  fury  bursts  from 
him  as  he  looks  out.  He  darts  into  the  passage,  and  re- 
turns dragging  in  Louka,  whom  he  flings  against  the 
table,  R.,  as  he  cries)  Judge  her,  Bluntschli — you,  the 
moderate,  cautious  man:  judge  the  eavesdropper. 

(Louka  stands  her  ground,  proud  and  silent.) 

Bluntschli  (shaking  his  head).  I  mustn't  judge 
her.  I  once  listened  myself  outside  a  tent  when  there  was 
a  mutiny  brewing.  It's  all  a  question  of  the  degree  of 
provocation.     My  life  was  at  stake. 

LouKA.  My  love  was  at  stake.  (Sergius  flinches, 
ashamed  of  her  in  spite  of  himself.)     I  am  not  ashamed. 

Raina  (contemptuously).  Your  love!  Your  curi- 
osity, you  mean. 

LouKA  (facing  her  and  retorting  her  contempt  with 
interest).  My  love,  stronger  than  anything  you  can 
feel,  even  for  your  chocolate  cream  soldier. 

Sergius  (with  quick  suspicion — to  Louka).  What 
does  that  mean? 

LouKA   (fiercely).     It  means 

Sergius  (interrupting  her  slightingly).  Oh,  I  re- 
member, the  ice  pudding.     A  paltry  taunt,  girl. 

(Major  Petkoff  enters,  in  his  shirtsleeves.) 

Petkoff.  Excuse  my  shirtsleeves,  gentlemen.  Raina : 
somebody  has  been  wearing  that  coat  of  mine:  I'll  swear 
it — somebody  with  bigger  shoulders  than  mine.  It's  all 
burst  open  at  the  back.  Your  mother  is  mending  it.  I 
wish  she'd  make  haste.  I  shall  catch  cold.  (He  looks' 
more  attentively  at  them.)     Is  anything  the  matter? 

Raina.  No.  (She  sits  down  at  the  stove  with  a 
tranquil  air.) 

Sergius.  Oh,  no!  (He  sits  down  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  as  at  first.) 

Bluntschli  (who  is  already  seated).  Nothing,  noth- 
ing. 


72  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

Petkoff  (sitting  down  on  the  ottoman  in  his  old 
place).  That's  all  right.  {He  notices  Louka.)  Any- 
thing   the    matter,    Louka? 

Louka.     No,  sir. 

Petkoff  {genially).  That's  all  right.  (He 
sneezes.)  Go  and  ask  your  mistress  for  my  coat,  like 
a  good  girl,  will  you.''  (She  turns  to  obey;  hut  Nicola 
enters  with  the  coat;  and  she  makes  a  pretence  of  having 
business  in  the  room  by  taking  the  little  table  with  the 
hookah  away  to  the  wall  near  the  windows.) 

Raina  (rising  quickly,  as  she  sees  the  coat  on  Nicola's 
arm).  Here  it  is,  papa.  Give  it  to  me,  Nicola;  and 
do  you  put  some  more  wood  on  the  fire.  (She  takes  the 
coat,  and  brings  it  to  the  Major,  who  stands  up  to  put 
it  on.     Nicola  attends  to  the  fire.) 

Petkoff  (to  Raina,  teasing  her  affectionately).  Alia! 
Going  to  be  very  good  to  poor  old  papa  just  for  one 
day  after  his  return  from  the  wars,  eh  ? 

Raina  (with  solemn  reproach).  Ah,  how  can  you  say 
that  to  me,  father? 

Petkoff.  Well,  well,  only  a  joke,  little  one.  Come, 
give  me  a  kiss.  (She  kisses  him.)  Now  give  me  the 
coat. 

Raina.  Now,  I  am  going  to  put  it  on  for  you.  Turn 
your  back.  (He  turns  his  back  and  feels  behind  him 
rvith  his  arms  for  the  sleeves.  She  dexterously  takes  the 
photograph  from  the  pocket  and  throws  it  on  the  table 
before  Bluntschli,  who  covers  it  with  a  sheet  of  paper 
under  the  very  nose  of  Sergius,  who  looks  on  amazed, 
rvith  his  suspicions  roused  in  the  highest  degree.  She 
then  helps  Petkoff  on  with  his  coat.)  There,  dear!  Now 
are  you  comfortable? 

Petkoff.  Quite,  little  love.  Thanks.  (He  sits- 
down;  and  Raina  returns  to  her  seat  near  the  stove.)  Oh, 
by  the  bye,  I've  found  something  funny.  What's  the 
meaning  of  this?  (He  puts  his  hand  into  the  picked 
pocket.)      Eh?      Hallo!      (He   tries   the   other  pocket.) 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  73 

Well,  I  could  have  sworn —  (Much  puzzled,  he  tries  the 
breast  pocket.)  I  wonder —  (Tries  the  original  pocket.) 
where  can  it —  (A  light  flashes  on  him;  he  rises, 
exclaiming)    Your    mother's    taken    it. 

Raina  (very  red).     Taken  what? 

Petkoff.  Your  photograph,  with  the  inscription: 
"  Raina,  to  her  Chocolate  Cream  Soldier — a  souvenir." 
Now  you  know  there's  something  more  in  this  than  meets 
the  eye;  and  I'm  going  to  find  it  out.  (Shouting) 
Nicola ! 

Nicola   (dropping  a  log,  and  turning).     Sir! 

Petkoff.  Did  you  spoil  any  pastry  of  Miss  Raina's 
this  morning? 

Nicola.     You  heard  ]\Iiss  Raina  say  that  I  did,  sir. 

Petkoff.     I  know  that,  you  idiot.     Was  it  true? 

Nicola.  I  am  sure  Miss  Raina  is  incapable  of  saying 
anything  that  is  not  true,  sir. 

Petkoff.  Are  you?  Then  I'm  not.  (Turning  to  the 
others.)  Come:  do  you  think  I  don't  see  it  all?  (Goes 
to  Sergius,  and  slaps  him  on  the  shoulder.)  Sergius: 
you're   the    chocolate    cream    soldier,    aren't    you? 

Sergius  (starting  up).  I!  a  chocolate  cream  soldier! 
Certainly  not. 

Petkoff.  Not!  (He  looks  at  them.  They  are  all 
very  serious  and  very  conscious.)  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  Raina  sends  photographic  souvenirs  to  other 
men? 

Sergius  (enigmatically.)  The  world  is  not  such  an 
innocent  place  as  we  used  to  think,  Petkoff. 

Bluntschli  (rising).  It's  all  right.  Major.  I'm  the 
chocolate  cream  soldier.  (Petkoff  and  Sergius  are 
equally  astonished.)  The  gracious  young  lady  saved  my 
life  by  giving  me  chocolate  creams  when  I  was  starving 
— shall  I  ever  forget  their  flavour !  My  late  friend  Stolz 
told  you  the  story  at  Peerot.     I  was  the  fugitive. 

Petkoff.  You!  (He  gasps.)  Sergius:  do  you  re- 
member how  those  two  women  went  on  this  morning  when 


74s  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

we  mentioned  it?  (Sergius  smiles  cynically.  Petkoff 
confronts  Raina  severely.^  You're  a  nice  young  wom- 
an, aren't  you? 

Raina  (bitterly').  Major  Saranoff  has  changed  his 
mind.  And  when  I  wrote  that  on  the  photograph,  I  did 
not  know  that  Captain  Bluntschli  was  married. 

Bluntschli  (much  startled — protesting  vehemently^. 
I'm  not  married. 

Raina  (with  deep  reproach).     You  said  you  were. 

Bluntschli.  I  did  not.  I  positively  did  not.  I  never 
was  married  in  my  life. 

Petkoff  (exasperated).  Raina:  will  you  kindly  in- 
form me,  if  I  am  not  asking  too  much,  which  gentleman 
you  are  engaged  to? 

Raina.  To  neither  of  them.  This  young  lady  (in- 
troducing Louka,  who  faces  them  all  proudly)  is  the 
object  of  Major  Saranoff 's  affections  at  present. 

Petkoff.  Louka!  Are  you  mad,  Sergius?  Why, 
this  girl's  engaged  to  Nicola. 

Nicola  (coming  forward).  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir. 
There  is  a  mistake.     Louka  is  not  engaged  to  me. 

Petkoff.  Not  engaged  to  you,  you  scoundrel !  Why, 
you  had  twenty-five  levas  from  me  on  the  day  of  your 
betrothal;  and  she  had  that  gilt  bracelet  from  Miss 
Raina. 

Nicola  (with  cool  unction).  We  gave  it  out  so,  sir. 
But  it  was  only  to  give  Louka  protection.  She  had  a 
soul  above  her  station;  and  I  have  been  no  more  than 
her  confidential  servant.  I  intend,  as  you  know,  sir,  to 
set  up  a  shop  later  on  in  Sofea;  and  I  look  forward  to 
her  custom  and  recommendation  should  she  marry  into 
the  nobility.  (He  goes  out  with  impressive  discretion, 
leaving  them  all  staring  after  him.) 

Petkoff    (breaking  the  silence).     Well,  I   am — hm! 

Sergius.  This  is  either  the  finest  heroism  or  the 
most  crawling  baseness.    Which  is  it,  Bluntschli  ? 

Bluntschli.      Never   mind   whether   it's    heroism  or 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  75 

baseness.  Nicola's  the  ablest  man  I've  met  in  Bulgaria. 
I'll  make  him  manager  of  a  hotel  if  he  can  speak  French 
and  German. 

LouKA  {suddenly  breaking  out  at  Sergius).  I  have 
been  insulted  by  everyone  here.  You  set  them  the  ex- 
ample. You  owe  me  an  apology.  (Sergius  immediately, 
like  a  repeating  clock  of  which  the  spring  has  been 
touched,  begins  to  fold  his  arms.) 

Bluntschli  (before  he  can  speak).  It's  no  use.  He 
never  apologizes. 

LouKA.  Not  to  you,  his  equal  and  his  enemy.  To 
me,  his  poor  servant,  he  will  not  refuse  to  apologize. 

Sergius  (approvingly).  You  are  right.  (He  bends 
his  k7iee  in  his  grandest  manner.)     Forgive  me! 

LouKA.  I  forgive  you.  (She  timidly  gives  him  her 
hand,  which  he  kisses.)  That  touch  makes  me  your 
affianced  wife. 

Sergius  (springing  up).    Ah,  I  forgot  that! 

LouKA   (coldly).     You  can  withdraw  if  you  like. 

Sergius.  Withdraw !  Never !  You  belong  to  me ! 
(He  puts  his  arm  about  her  and  draws  her  to  him.) 

(Catherine  comes  in  and  finds  Louka  in  Sergius's 
arms,  and  all  the  rest  gazing  at  them  in  bewildered  aston- 
ishment.) 

Catherine.  What  does  this  mean?  (Sergius  releases 
Louka.) 

Petkoff.  Well,  my  dear,  it  appears  that  Sergius  is 
going  to  marry  Louka  instead  of  Raina.  (She  is  about 
to  break  out  indignantly  at  him:  he  stops  her  by  ex- 
claiming testily.)  Don't  blame  me:  I've  nothing  to  do 
with  it.     (He  retreats  to  the  stove.) 

Catherine.  Marry  Louka!  Sergius:  you  are  bound 
by  your  word  to  us ! 

Sergius  (folding  his  arms).     Nothing  binds  me. 

Bluntschli  (much  pleased  by  this  piece  of  common 
sense).  Saranoff:  your  hand.  My  congratulations. 
These  heroics  of  yours  have  their  practical  side  after   all. 


76  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  ni 

{To  Louka.)  Gracious  young  lady:  the  best  wishes  of 
a  good  Republican!  {He  kisses  her  hand,  to  Raina's 
great  disgust.) 

Catherine  {threateningly).  Louka:  you  have  been 
telling  stories. 

Louka.     I  have  done  Raina  no  harm. 

Catherine  {haughtily).  Raina!  {Raina  is  equally 
indignant  at  the  liberty.) 

Louka.  I  have  a  right  to  call  her  Raina:  she  calls 
me  Louka.  I  told  Major  Saranoff  she  would  never  marry 
him  if  the  Swiss  gentleman  came  back. 

Bluntschli   {surprised).     Hallo! 

Louka  {turning  to  Raina).  I  thougbt  you  were 
fonder  of  him  than  of  Sergius.  You  know  best  whether 
I  was  right. 

Bluntschli.  What  nonsense!  I  assure  you,  my 
dear  Major,  my  dear  Madame,  the  gracious  young  lady 
simply  saved  my  life,  nothing  else.  She  never  cared  two 
straws  for  me.  Why,  bless  my  heart  and  soul,  look  at 
the  young  lady  and  look  at  me.  She,  rich,  young,  beau- 
tiful, with  her  imagination  full  of  fairy  princes  and  noble 
natures  and  cavalry  charges  and  goodness  knows  what! 
And  I,  a  commonplace  Swiss  soldier  who  hardly  knows 
what  a  decent  life  is  after  fifteen  years  of  barracks  and 
battles — a  vagabond — a  man  who  has  spoiled  all  his 
chances  in  life  through  an  incurably  romantic  disposition 
— a  man 

Sergius  {starting  as  if  a  needle  has  pricked  him  and 
interrupting  Bluntschli  in  incredulous  amazement).  Ex- 
cuse me,  Bluntschli:  what  did  you  say  had  spoiled  your 
chances  in  life? 

Bluntschli  {promptly).  An  incurably  romantic  dis- 
position. I  ran  away  from  home  twice  when  I  was  a 
boy.  I  went  into  the  army  instead  of  into  my  father's 
business.  I  climbed  the  balcony  of  this  house  when  a 
man  of  sense  would  have  dived  into  the  nearest  cellar.  I 
came  sneaking  back  here  to   have   another  look  at  the 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  77 

young  lady  when  any  other  man  of  my  age  would  have 
sent  the  coat  back 

Petkoff.     My  coat ! 

Bluntschli.  — Yes:  that's  the  coat  I  mean — would 
have  sent  it  back  and  gone  quietly  home.  Do  you  sup- 
pose I  am  the  sort  of  fellow  a  young  girl  falls  in  love 
with?  Why,  look  at  our  ages!  I'm  thirty- four:  I  don't 
suppose  the  young  lady  is  much  over  seventeen.  (This 
estimate  produces  a  marked  sensation,  all  the  rest  turn- 
ing and  staring  at  one  another.  He  proceeds  innocently .) 
All  that  adventure  which  was  life  or  death  to  me,  was 
only  a  schoolgirl's  game  to  her — chocolate  creams  and 
hide  and  seek.  Here's  the  proof!  {He  takes  the 
photograph  from  the  table.)  Now,  I  ask  you,  would 
a  woman  who  took  the  affair  seriously  have  sent  me  this 
and  written  on  it:  "  Raina,  to  her  chocolate  cream  sol- 
dier— a  souvenir.''"  {He  exhibits  the  photograph  tri- 
umphantly, as  if  it  settled  the  matter  beyond  all  pos- 
sibility of  refutation.) 

Petkoff.  That's  what  I  was  looking  for.  How  the 
deuce  did  it  get  there? 

Bluntschli  {to  Raina  complacently).  I  have  put 
everything  right,  I  hope,  gracious  young  lady ! 

Raina  {in  uncontrollable  vejcation).  I  quite  agree 
with  your  account  of  yourself.  You  are  a  romantic  idiot. 
{Bluntschli  is  unspeakably  taken  aback.)  Next  time  I 
hope  you  M-ill  know  the  difference  between  a  schoolgirl  of 
seventeen  and  a  woman  of  twenty-three. 

Bluntschli  {stupefied) .  Twenty-three!  {She  snaps 
the  photograph  contemptuously  from  his  hand;  tears  it 
across;  and  throws  the  pieces  at  his  feet.) 

Sergius  {with  grim  enjoyment  of  Bluntschli's  discom- 
fiture). Bluntschli:  my  one  last  iDclief  is  gone.  Your 
sagacity  is  a  fraud,  like  all  the  other  things.  You  have 
less  sense  than  even  I  have. 

Bluntschli  {overrvhelmed).  Twenty-three!  Twen- 
ty-three ! !      {He  considers.)     Hm  !     {Srviftly  making  up 


78  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

his  mind.)  In  that  case.  Major  Petkoff,  I  beg  to  pro- 
pose formally  to  become  a  suitor  for  your  daughter's 
hand,  in  place  of  Major  Saranoff  retired. 

Raina.     You  dare! 

Bluntschli.  If  you  were  twenty-three  when  you 
said  those  things  to  me  this  afternoon,  I  shall  take  them 
seriously. 

Catherine  (loftily  polite).  I  doubt,  sir,  whether  you 
quite  realize  either  my  daughter's  position  or  that  of 
Major  Sergius  Saranoff,  whose  place  you  propose  to 
take.  The  Petkoffs  and  the  Saranoffs  are  known  as  the 
richest  and  most  important  families  in  the  country.  Our 
position  is  almost  historical:  we  can  go  back  for  nearly 
twenty  years. 

Petkoff.  Oh,  never  mind  that,  Catherine.  {To 
Bluntschli.)  We  should  be  most  happy,  Bluntschli,  if 
it  were  only  a  question  of  your  position;  but  hang  it, 
you  know,  Raina  is  accustomed  to  a  very  comfortable 
establishment.      Sergius   keeps   twenty   horses. 

Bluntschli.  But  what  on  earth  is  the  use  of  twenty 
horses  ?    Why,  it's  a  circus. 

Catherine  (severely).  My  daughter,  sir,  is  accus- 
tomed to  a  first-rate  stable. 

Raina.     Hush,  mother,  you're  making  me  ridiculous. 

Bluntschll  Oh,  well,  if  it  comes  to  a  question  of 
an  establishment,  here  goes !  (He  goes  impetuously  to 
the  table  and  seizes  the  papers  in  the  blue  envelope.) 
How  many  horses  did  you  say.^ 

Sergius.     Twenty,  noble  Switzer! 

Bluntschli.  I  have  two  hundred  horses.  (They  are 
amazed.)      How   many  carriages? 

Sergius.     Three. 

Bluntschll  I  have  seventy.  Twenty-four  of  them 
will  hold  twelve  inside,  besides  two  on  the  box,  without 
counting  the  driver  and  conductor.  How  many  table- 
cloths have  you? 

Sergius.     How  the  deuce  do  I  know? 


Act  III  Arms  and  the  Man  79 

Bluntschli.     Have  you  four  thousand? 

Sergius.     No. 

Bluntschli.  I  have.  I  have  nine  thousand  six  hun- 
dred pairs  of  sheets  and  blankets,  with  two  thousand  four 
hundred  eider-down  quilts.  I  have  ten  thousand  knives 
and  forks,  and  the  same  quantity  of  dessert  spoons.  I 
have  six  hundred  servants.  I  have  six  palatial  estab- 
lishments, besides  two  livery  stables,  a  tea  garden 
and  a  private  house.  I  have  four  medals  for  distin- 
guished services;  I  have  the  rank  of  an  officer  and  the 
standing  of  a  gentleman ;  and  I  have  three  native  lan- 
guages. Show  me  any  man  in  Bulgaria  that  can  offer  as 
much. 

Petkoff  (with  childish  awe).  Are  you  Emperor  of 
Switzerland .'' 

Bluntschli.  My  rank  is  the  highest  known  in  Swit- 
zerland: I'm  a  free  citizen. 

Catherine.  Then  Captain  Bluntschli,  since  you  are 
my  daughter's  choice,  I  shall  not  stand  in  the  way  of 
her  happiness.  (Petkoff  is  about  to  speak.)  That  is 
Major  Petkoff 's  feeling  also. 

Petkoff.  Oh,  I  shall  be  only  too  glad.  Two  hun- 
dred horses !     Whew ! 

Sergius.     What  says  the  lady? 

Raina  (pretending  to  sulk).  The  lady  says  that  he 
can  keep  his  tablecloths  and  his  omnibuses.  I  am  not 
here  to  be  sold  to  the  highest  bidder. 

Bluntschli.  I  won't  take  that  answer.  I  appealed 
to  you  as  a  fugitive,  a  beggar,  and  a  starving  man.  You 
accepted  me.  You  gave  me  your  hand  to  kiss,  your  bed 
to  sleep  in,  and  your  roof  t^  shelter  me 

Raina  (interrupting  him.y  I  did  not  give  them  to  the 
Emperor  of  Switzerland ! 

Bluntschli.  That's  just  what  I  say.  (He  catches 
her  hand  quickly  and  looks  her  straight  in  the  face  as  he 
adds,  with  confident  mastery).  Now  tell  us  who  you  did 
give  them  to. 


80  Arms  and  the  Man  Act  III 

Raina  (succumbing  with  a  shy  smile).  To  my  choco- 
late cream  soldier ! 

Bluntschli  (with  a  boyish  laugh  of  delight). 
That'll  do.  Thank  you.  (Looks  at  his  watch  and  sud- 
denly becomes  businesslike.)  Time's  up,  Major.  You've 
managed  those  regiments  so  well  that  you  are  sure  to 
be  asked  to  get  rid  of  some  of  the  Infantry  of  the  Tee- 
mok  division.  Send  them  home  by  way  of  Lom  Palanka. 
Saranoff:  don't  get  married  until  I  come  back:  I  shall 
be  here  punctually  at  five  in  the  evening  on  Tuesday  fort- 
night. Gracious  ladies — good  evening.  (He  makes  them 
a  military  bow,  and  goes.) 

Sergius.     What  a  man !    What  a  man ! 

CURTAIN, 


CANDIDA 


CANDIDA 


ACT  I 

A  fine  October  morning  in  the  north  east  suburbs  of 
London,  a  vast  district  many  miles  away  from  the  Lon- 
don of  Mayfair  and  St.  James's,  much  less  known  there 
than  the  Paris  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  and  the  Champs 
Elysees,  and  much  less  narrow,  squalid,  fetid  and  airless 
in  its  slums;  strong  in  comfortable,  prosperous  middle 
class  life;  wide  streetedj  myriad-populated ;  well-served 
with  ugly  iron  urinals.  Radical  clubs,  tram  lines,  and  a 
perpetual  stream  of  yellow  cars;  enjoying  in  its  main 
thoroughfares  the  luxury  of  grass-grown  "  front  gar- 
dens," untrodden  by  the  foot  of  man  save  as  to  the  path 
from  the  gate  to  the  hall  door;  but  blighted  by  an  in- 
tolerable monotony  of  miles  and  miles  of  graceless, 
characterless  brick  houses,  black  iron  railings,  stony  pave- 
ments, slaty  roofs,  and  respectably  ill  dressed  or  dis- 
reputably poorly  dressed  veople,  quite  accustomed  to  the 
place,  and  mostly  plodding  about  somebody  else's  work, 
which  they  would  not  do  if  they  themselves  could  help 
it.  The  little  energy  and  eagerness  that  crop  up  shew 
themselves  in  cockney  cupidity  and  business  "  push.'* 
Even  the  policeman  and  the  chapels  are  not  infrequent 
enough  to  break  the  monotony.  The  sun  is  shining  cheer- 
fully; there  is  no  fog;  and  though  the  smoke  effectually 
prevents  anything,  whether  faces  and  hands  or  bricks 
and  mortar,  from  looking  fresh  and  clean,  it  is  not 
hanging  heavily  enough  to  trouble  a  Londoner. 

This  desert  of  un attractiveness  has  its  oasis.    Near  the 

83 


84  Candida  Act  I 

outer  end  of  the  Hackney  Road  is  a  park  of  217  acres, 
fenced  in,  not  by  railings,  but  by  a  wooden  paling,  and 
containing  plenty  of  greensward,  trees,  a  lake  for  bath- 
ers, florver  beds  with  the  flowers  arranged  carefully  in 
patterns  by  the  admired  cockney  art  of  carpet  gardening 
and  a  sandpit,  imported  from  the  seaside  for  the  delight 
of  the  children,  but  speedily  deserted  on  its  becoming  a 
natural  vermin  preserve  for  all  the  petty  fauna  of  Kings- 
land,  Hackney  and  Tloxton.  A  bandstand,  an  unfinished 
forum  for  religious,  anti-religious  and  political  orators, 
cricket  pitches,  a  gymnasium,  and  an  old  fashioned  stone 
kiosk  are  among  its  attractions.  Wherever  the  prospect 
is  bounded  by  trees  or  risiJig  green  grounds,  it  is  a 
pleasant  place.  Where  the  ground  stretches  flat  to  the 
grey  palings,  with  bricks  and  mortar,  sky  signs,  crowded 
chimneys  and  smoke  beyond,  the  prospect  makes  it 
desolate  and  sordid. 

The  best  view  of  Victoria  Park  is  from  the  front  win- 
dow of  St.  Dominic's  Parsonage,  from  which  not  a 
single  chimney  is  visible.  The  parsonage  is  a  se?ni- 
detached  villa  with  a  front  garden  and  a  porch.  Visitors 
go  up  the  flight  of  steps  to  the  porch:  tradespeople  and 
members  of  the  family  go  down  by  a  door  under  the 
steps  to  the  basement,  with  a  breakfast  room,  used  for 
all  meals,  in  front,  and  the  kitchen  at  the  back.  Up- 
stairs, on  the  level  of  the  hall  door,  is  the  drawing-room, 
with  its  large  plate  glass  window  looking  on  the  park. 
In  this  room,  the  only  sitting-room  that  can  be  spared 
from  the  children  and  the  family  meals,  the  parson,  the 
Reverend  James  Mavor  Morell  does  his  work.  He  is 
sitting  in  a  strong  round  backed  revolving  chair  at  the 
right  hand  end  of  a  long  table,  which  stands  across  the 
window,  so  that  he  can  cheer  himself  with  the  view  of 
the  park  at  his  elbow.  At  the  opposite  end  of  the  table, 
adjoining  it,  is  a  little  table  only  half  the  width  of  the 
other,  with  a  typewriter  on  it.  His  typist  is  sitting  at 
this  machine,  with  her  back  to  the  window.     The  large 


Act  I  Candida  85 

table  is  littered  with  pamphlets,  journals,  letters,  nests 
of  drawers,  an  of/ice  diary,  postage  scales  and  the  like.  A 
spare  chair  for  visitors  having  business  with  the  parson 
is  in  the  middle,  turned  to  his  end.  Within  reach  of  his 
hand  is  a  stationery  case,  and  a  cabinet  photograph  in 
a  frame.  Behind  him  the  right  hand  wall,  recessed  above 
the  fireplace,  is  fitted  with  bookshelves,  on  which  an 
adept  eye  can  measure  the  parson's  divinity  and  casuistry 
by  a  complete  set  of  Browning's  poems  and  Maurice's 
Theological  Essays,  and  guess  at  his  politics  from  a 
yellow  backed  Progress  and  Poverty,  Fabian  Essays,  a 
Dream  of  John  Ball,  Marx's  Capital,  and  half  a  dozen 
other  literary  landmarks  in  Socialism.  Opposite  him  on 
the  left,  near  the  typewriter,  is  the  door.  Further  down 
the  room,  opposite  the  fireplace,  a  bookcase  stands  on  a 
cellaret,  with  a  sofa  near  it.  There  is  a  generous  fire 
burning;  and  the  hearth,  with  a  comfortable  armchair  and 
a  japanned  flower  painted  coal  scuttle  at  one  side,  a 
miniature  chair  for  a  boy  or  girl  on  the  other,  a  nicely 
varnished  wooden  mantelpiece,  with  neatly  moulded 
shelves,  tiny  bits  of  mirror  let  into  the  panels,  and  a 
travelling  clock  in  a  leather  case  {the  inevitable  wed- 
ding present),  and  on  the  wall  above  a  large  autotype 
of  the  chief  figure  in  Titian's  Virgin  of  the  Assumption, 
is  very  inviting.  Altogether  the  room  is  the  room  of  a 
good  housekeeper,  vanquished,  as  far  as  the  table  is  con- 
cerned, by  an  untidy  man,  but  elsewhere  mistress  of  the 
situation.  The  furniture,  in  its  ornamental  aspect,  be- 
trays the  style  of  the  advertised  "  drawing-room  suite  " 
of  the  pushing  suburban  furniture  dealer;  but  there  is 
nothing  useless  or  pretentious  in  the  room.  The  paper 
and  panelling  are  dark,  throwing  the  big  cheery  win- 
dow and  the  park  outside  into  strong  relief. 

The  Reverend  James  Mavor  Morell  is  a  Christian  So- 
cialist clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  an 
active  member  of  the  Guild  of  St.  Matthew  and  the 
Christian  Social  Union.    A  vigorous,  genial,  popular  man 


86  Candida  Act  I 

of  forty,  robust  and  goodlooTcing,  full  of  energy,  with 
pleasant,  hearty,  considerate  manners,  and  a  sound,  unaf- 
fected voice,  which  he  uses  with  the  clean,  athletic 
articulation  of  a  practised  orator,  and  with  a  wide  range 
and  perfect  command  of  expression.  He  is  a  first  rate 
clergyman,  able  to  say  what  he  likes  to  whom  he  likes, 
to  lecture  people  without  setting  himself  up  against  them, 
to  impose  his  authority  on  them  without  humiliating  them, 
and  to  interfere  in  their  business  without  impertinence. 
His  well  spring  of  spiritual  enthusiasm  and  sympathetic 
emotion  has  never  run  dry  for  a  moment:  he  still  eats 
and  sleeps  heartily  enough  to  win  the  daily  battle 
between  exhaustion  and  recuperation  triumphantly. 
Withal,  a  great  baby,  pardonably  vain  of  his  powers  and 
unconsciously  pleased  with  himself.  He  has  a  healthy 
complexion,  a  good  forehead,  with  the  brows  somewhat 
blunt,  and  the  eyes  bright  and  eager,  a  mouth  resolute, 
but  not  particularly  well  cut,  and  a  substantial  nose,  with 
the  mobile,  spreading  nostrils  of  the  dramatic  orator,  but, 
like  all  his  features,  void  of  subtlety. 

The  typist,  Miss  Proserpine  Garnett,  is  a  brisk  little 
woman  of  about  30,  of  the  lower  middle  class,  neatly 
but  cheaply  dressed  in  a  black  merino  skirt  and  a  blouse, 
rather  pert  and  quick  of  speech,  and  not  very  civil  in 
her  manner,  but  sensitive  and  affectionate.  She  is  clat- 
tering away  busily  at  her  machine  whilst  Morell  opens 
the  last  of  his  morning's  letters.  He  realises  its  con- 
tents with  a  comic  groan  of  despair. 

Proserpine.     Another  lecture? 

Morell.  Yes.  The  Hoxton  Freedom  Group  want  me 
to  address  them  on  Sunday  morning  (great  emphasis  on 
"  Sunday,"  this  being  the  unreasonable  part  of  the 
business).     What  are  they.^ 

Proserpine.     Communist  Anarchists,  I  think. 

Morell.  Just  like  Anarchists  not  to  know  that  they 
can't  have  a  parson  on  Sunday!     Tell  them  to  come  to 


Act  I  Candida  87 

church  if  they  want  to  hear  me:  it  will  do  them  good. 
Say  I  can  only  come  on  Mondays  and  Thursdays.  Have 
you  the  diary  there? 

Proserpine  {taking  up  the  diary).     Yes. 

MoRELL.     Have  I  any  lecture  on  for  next  Monday? 

Proserpine  (referring  to  diary).  Tower  Hamlets 
Radical  Club. 

MoRELL.     Well,  Thursday  then? 

Proserpine.     English  Land  Restoration  League. 

MoRELL.     What  next? 

Proserpine.  Guild  of  St.  Matthew  on  Monday.  In- 
dependent Labor  Party,  Greenwich  Branch,  on  Thurs- 
day. Monday,  Social-Democratic  Federation,  Mile  End 
Branch.  Thursday,  first  Confirmation  class —  {Impa- 
tiently.) Oh,  I'd  better  tell  them  you  can't  come. 
They're  only  half  a  dozen  ignorant  and  conceited  coster- 
mongers  without  five  shillings  between  them. 

MoRELL  {amused).  Ah;  but  you  see  they're  near  rela- 
tives of  mine.  Miss  Garnett. 

Proserpine   {staring  at  him).     Relatives  of  yours! 

MoRELL.     Yes:  we  have  the  same  father — in  Heaven. 

Proserpine  {relieved).     Oh,  is  that  all? 

MoRELL  {with  a  sadness  which  is  a  luxury  to  a  man 
rohose  voice  expresses  it  so  finely).  Ah,  you  don't  be- 
lieve it.  Everybody  says  it:  nobody  believes  it — nobody. 
{Briskly,  getting  hack  to  business.)  Well,  well!  Come, 
Miss  Proserpine,  can't  you  find  a  date  for  the  costers  ? 
What  about  the  25th?:  that  was  vacant  the  day  before 
yesterday. 

Proserpine  {referring  to  diary).  Engaged — ^the  Fa- 
bian Society. 

Morell.  Bother  the  Fabian  Society!  Is  the  28th 
gone,  too? 

Proserpine.  City  dinner.  You're  invited  to  dine 
with  the  Founder's  Company. 

Morell.  That'll  do;  I'll  go  to  the  Hoxton  Group  of 
Freedom  instead.     {She  enters  the  engagement  in  silence. 


88  Candida  Act  I 

with  implacable  disparagement  of  the  Hoxton  Anarchists 
in  every  line  of  her  face.  Morell  bursts  open  the  cover 
of  a  copy  of  The  Church  Reformer,  which  has  come 
by  post,  and  glances  through  Mr.  Stewart  Hendlam's 
leader  and  the  Guild  of  St.  Matthew  news.  These  pro- 
ceedings are  presently  enlivened  by  the  appearance  of 
Morell' s  curate,  the  Reverend  Alexander  Mill,  a  young 
gentleman  gathered  by  Morell  from  the  nearest  Uni- 
versity Settlement,  whither  he  had  come  from  Oxford  to 
give  the  east  end  of  London  the  benefit  of  his  university 
training.  He  is  a  conceitedly  well  intentioned,  enthusi- 
astic, immature  person,  with  notJiing  positively  unbear- 
able about  him  except  a  habit  of  speaking  with  his  lips 
carefully  closed  for  half  an  inch  from  each  corner,  a 
finicking  articidation,  and  a  set  of  horribly  corrupt 
vowels,  notably  ow  for  o,  this  being  his  chief  means  of 
bringing  Oxford  refinement  to  bear  on  Hackney  vul- 
garity. Morell,  whom  he  has  won  over  by  a  doglike  de- 
votion, looks  up  indulgently  from  The  Church  Reformer 
as  he  enters,  and  remarks)  Well,  Lexy !  Late  again,  as 
usual. 

Lexy.  I'm  afraid  so.  I  wish  I  could  get  up  in  the 
morning. 

Morell  {exulting  in  his  own  energy).  Ha!  ha! 
{Whimsically.)     Watch  and  pray,  Lexy:  watch  and  pray. 

Lexy.  I  know.  {Rising  wittily  to  the  occasion.) 
But  how  can  I  watch  and  pray  when  I  am  asleep  .^  Isn't 
that  so.  Miss  Prossy? 

Proserpine   {sharply).     Miss  Garnett,  if  you  please. 

Lexy.     I  beg  your  pardon — ISIiss  Garnett. 

Proserpine.     You've  got  to  do  all  the  work  to-day. 

Lexy.    Why  ? 

Proserpine.  Never  mind  why.  It  will  do  you  good 
to  earn  your  supper  before  you  eat  it,  for  once  in  a  way, 
as  I  do.  Come:  don't  dawdle.  You  should  have  been 
off  on  your  rounds  half  an  hour  ago. 

Lexy  {perplexed).    Is  she  in  earnest,  Morell.'' 


Act  I  Candida  89 

MoRELL  (in  the  highest  spirits — his  eyes  dancing^. 
Yes.     I  am  going  to  dawdle  to-day. 

Lexy.     You  !     You  don't  know  how. 

MoRELL  (heartily).  Ha!  ha!  Don't  I?  I'm  going 
to  have  this  day  all  to  myself — or  at  least  the  forenoon. 
My  wife's  coming  back:  she's  due  here  at  11:45. 

Lexy  (surprised).  Coming  back  already — with  the 
children?  I  thought  they  were  to  stay  to  the  end  of  the 
month. 

MoRELL.  So  they  are:  she's  only  coming  up  for  two 
days,  to  get  some  flannel  things  for  Jimmy,  and  to  see 
how  we're  getting  on  without  her. 

Lexy  (anxiously).  But,  my  dear  Morell,  if  what 
Jimmy  and  Fluffy  had  was  scarlatina,  do  you  think  it 
wise 

MoRELL.  Scarlatina  ! — rubbish,  German  measles.  I 
brought  it  into  the  house  myself  from  the  Pycroft  Street 
School.  A  parson  is  like  a  doctor,  my  boy:  he  must  face 
infection  as  a  soldier  must  face  bullets.  (He  rises  and 
claps  Lexy  on  the  shoulder.)  Catch  the  measles  if  you 
can,  Lexy:  she'll  nurse  you;  and  what  a  piece  of  luck 
that  will  be  for  you  ! — eh  ? 

Lexy  (smiling  uneasily).  It's  so  hard  to  understand 
you  about  Mrs.  Morell 

MoRELL  (tenderly).  Ah,  my  boy,  get  married — get 
married  to  a  good  woman;  and  then  you'll  understand. 
That's  a  foretaste  of  what  will  be  best  in  the  Kingdom 
of  Heaven  we  are  trying  to  establish  on  earth.  That 
will  cure  you  of  dawdling.  An  honest  man  feels  that  he 
must  pay  Heaven  for  every  hour  of  happiness  with  a 
good  spell  of  hard,  unselfish  work  to  make  others  happy. 
We  have  no  more  right  to  consume  happiness  without 
producing  it  than  to  consume  wealth  without  producing 
it.  Get  a  wife  like  my  Candida ;  and  you'll  always  be 
in  arrear  with  your  repayment. 

(He  pats  Lexy  affectionately  on  the  back,  and  is  leav- 
ing the  room  when  Lexy  calls  to  him.) 


90  Candida  Act  I 

Lexy.  Oh,  wait  a  bit:  I  forgot.  (Morell  halts  and 
turns  with  the  door  knob  in  his  hand.)  Your  father-in- 
law  is  coming  round  to  see  you.  {Morell  shuts  the  door 
again,  with  a  complete  change  of  maimer.) 

MoRELL   (surprised  and  not  pleased).     Mr.  Burgess? 

Lexy.  Yes.  I  passed  him  in  the  park,  arguing  with 
somebody.  He  gave  me  good  day  and  asked  me  to  let 
you  know  that  he  was  coming. 

MoRELL  (half  incredulous).  But  he  hasn't  called 
here  for — I  may  almost  say  for  years.  Are  you  sure, 
Lexy?     You're  not  joking,  are  you.'' 

Lexy  (earnestly).     No,  sir,  really. 

Morell,  (thou ghtf idly).  Hm !  Time  for  him  to  take 
another  look  at  Candida  before  she  grows  out  of  his 
knowledge.  (He  resigns  himself  to  the  inevitable,  and 
goes  out.  Lexy  looks  after  him  with  beaming,  foolish 
worship.) 

Lexy.  What  a  good  man !  What  a  thorough,  loving 
soul  he  is ! 

(He  takes  Morell's  place  at  the  table,  making  himself 
very  comfortable  as  he  takes  out  a  cigaret.) 

Proserpine  (impatiently,  pulling  the  letter  she  has 
been  working  at  off  the  typewriter  and  folding  it).  Oh, 
a  man  ought  to  be  able  to  be  fond  of  his  wife  without 
making  a  fool  of  himself  about  her. 

Lexy  (shocked).     Oh,  Miss  Prossy! 

Proserpine  (rising  busily  and  coming  to  the  station- 
ery case  to  get  an  envelope,  in  which  she  encloses  the 
letter  as  she  speaks).  Candida  here,  and  Candida  there, 
and  Candida  everywhere!  (She  licks  the  envelope.)  It's 
enough  to  drive  anyone  out  of  their  senses  (thump- 
ing the  envelope  to  make  it  stick)  to  hear  a  perfectly 
commonplace  woman  raved  about  in  that  absurd  manner 
merely  because  she's  got  good  hair,  and  a  tolerable  figure. 

Lexy  (with  reproachful  gravity).  I  think  her  ex- 
tremely beautiful.  Miss  Garnett.  (He  takes  the  photo- 
graph np;  looks  at  it;  and  adds,  with  even  greater  im- 


Act  I  Candida  91 

pressiveness)  Extremely  beautiful.  How  fine  her 
eyes  are! 

Proserpine.  Her  eyes  are  not  a  bit  better  than  mine 
— now !  {He  puts  down  the  photograph  and  stares 
austerely  at  her).  And  you  know  very  well  that  you 
think  me  dowdy  and  second  rate  enough. 

Lexy  (rising  majestically).  Heaven  forbid  that  I 
should  think  of  any  of  God's  creatures  in  such  a  way ! 
(He  moves  stiffly  arvay  from  her  across  the  room  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  bookcase.) 

Proserpine.  Thank  you.  That's  very  nice  and  com- 
forting. 

Lexy  (saddened  by  her  depravity).  I  had  no  idea 
you  had  any  feeling  against  Mrs.  Morell. 

Proserpine  (indignantly) .  I  have  no  feeling  against 
her.  She's  very  nice,  very  good-hearted:  I'm  very  fond 
of  her  and  can  appreciate  her  real  qualities  far  better 
than  any  man  can.  (He  shakes  his  head  sadly  and  turns 
to  the  bookcase,  looking  along  the  shelves  for  a  volume. 
She  follows  him  with  intense  pepperiness.)  You  don't 
believe  me.''  (He  turns  and  faces  her.  She  pounces  at 
him  with  spitfire  energy.)  You  think  I'm  jealous.  Oh, 
what  a  profound  knowledge  of  the  human  heart  you  have, 
Mr.  Lexy  Mill !  How  well  you  know  the  weaknesses  of 
Woman,  don't  you .''  It  must  be  so  nice  to  be  a  man  and 
have  a  fine  penetrating  intellect  instead  of  mere  emo- 
tions like  us,  and  to  know  that  the  reason  we  don't  share 
your  amorous  delusions  is  that  we're  all  jealous  of  one 
another!  (She  abandons  him  with  a  toss  of  her  shoul- 
ders, and  crosses  to  the  fire  to  warm  her  hands.) 

Lexy.  Ah,  if  you  women  only  had  the  same  clue  to 
Man's  strength  that  you  have  to  his  weakness.  Miss 
Prossy,  there  would  be  no  Woman  Question. 

Proserpine  (over  her  shoulder,  as  she  stoops,  holding 
her  hands  to  the  blaze).  Where  did  you  hear  Morell  say 
that?  You  didn't  invent  it  yourself:  you're  not  clever 
enough. 


92  Candida  Act  I 

Lexy.  That's  quite  true.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  owing 
him  that,  as  I  owe  him  so  many  other  spiritual  truths. 
He  said  it  at  the  annual  conference  of  the  Women's 
Liberal  Federation.  Allow  me  to  add  that  though  they 
didn't  appreciate  it,  I,  a  mere  man,  did.  {He  turns  to 
the  bookcase  again,  hoping  that  this  may  leave  her 
crushed.) 

Proserpine  {putting  her  hair  straight  at  the  little 
panel  of  mirror  in  the  mantelpiece).  Well,  when  you 
talk  to  me,  give  me  your  own  ideas,  such  as  they  are, 
and  not  his.  You  never  cut  a  poorer  figure  than  when 
you  are  trying  to  imitate  him. 

Lexy  (stung).  I  try  to  follow  his  example,  not  to 
imitate  him. 

Proserpine  (coming  at  him  again  on  her  way  back  to 
her  rvork).  Yes,  you  do:  you  imitate  him.  Why  do 
you  tuck  your  umbrella  under  your  left  arm  instead  of 
carrying  it  in  your  hand  like  anyone  else?  Why  do  you 
walk  with  your  chin  stuck  out  before  you,  hurrying  along 
with  that  eager  look  in  your  eyes — you,  who  never  get 
up  before  half  past  nine  in  the  morning?  Why  do  you 
say  "  knoaledge "  in  church,  though  you  always  say 
"  knolledge  "  in  private  conversation !  Bah !  do  you  think 
I  don't  know?  (She  goes  back  to  the  typewriter.) 
Here,  come  and  set  about  your  work:  we've  wasted  enough 
time  for  one  morning.  Here's  a  copy  of  the  diary  for 
to-day.      (She  hands  him  a  memorandum.) 

Lexy  (deeply  offe?ided).  Thank  you.  (He  takes  it 
and  stands  at  the  table  with  his  back  to  her,  reading  it. 
She  begins  to  transcribe  her  shorthand  notes  on  the  type- 
writer without  troubling  herself  about  his  feelings.  Mr. 
Burgess  enters  unannounced.  He  is  a  man  of  sixty, 
made  coarse  and  sordid  by  the  compulsory  selfishness 
of  petty  commerce,  and  later  on  softened  into  sluggish 
bumptiousness  by  overfeeding  and  commercial  success. 
A  vulgar,  ignorant,  guzzling  man,  offensive  and  con- 
temptuous to  people  whose  labor  is  cheav,  respectful  to 


Act  I  Candida  93 

wealth  and  rank,  and  quite  sincere  and  without  rancour 
or  envy  in  both  attitudes.  Finding  him  without  talent, 
the  world  has  offered  him  no  decently  paid  work  except 
ignoble  work,  and  he  has  become  in  consequence,  some- 
what hoggish.  But  he  has  no  suspicion  of  this  himself, 
and  honestly  regards  his  commercial  prosperity  as  the 
inevitable  and  socially  wholesome  triumph  of  the  ability, 
industry,  shrewdness  and  experience  in  btisiness  of  a 
man  who  in  private  is  easygoing,  affectionate  and  humor- 
ously convival  to  a  fault.  Corporeally,  he  is  a  podgy 
man,  with  a  square,  clean  shaven  face  and  a  square  beard 
under  his  chin;  dust  colored,  with  a  patch  of  grey  in  the 
centre,  and  small  watery  blue  eyes  with  a  plaintively 
sentimental  expression,  which  he  transfers  easily  to  his 
voice  by  his  habit  of  pompously  intoning  his  sentences.^ 

Burgess  (stopping  on  the  threshold,  and  looking 
round).     They  told  me  Mr.  Morell  was  here. 

Proserpine  (rising).  He's  upstairs.  I'll  fetch  him 
for  you. 

Burgess  (staring  boorishly  at  her).  You're  not  the 
same  young  lady  as  hused  to  typewrite  for  him? 

Proserpine.     No. 

Burgess  (assenting).  No:  she  was  young-er.  (Miss 
Garnett  stolidly  stares  at  him;  then  goes  out  with  great 
dignity.  He  receives  this  quite  obtusely,  and  crosses  to 
the  hearth-rug,  where  he  turns  and  spreads  himself  with 
his  back  to  the  fire.)     Startin'  on  your  rounds,  Mr.  Mill? 

Lexy  (folding  his  paper  and  pocketing  it).  Yes:  I 
must  be  off  presently. 

Burgess  (momentously).  Don't  let  me  detain  you, 
Mr.  Mill.  What  I  come  about  is  private  between  me 
and  Mr.  Morell. 

Lexy  (huffily).  I  have  no  intention  of  intruding,  I 
am  sure,  Mr.  Burgess.     Good  morning. 

Burgess  (patronizingly) .  Oh,  good  morning  to  you. 
(Morell  returns  as  Lexy  is  making  for  the  door.') 

Morell  (to  Lexy).     Off  to  work? 


94)  Candida  Acr  I 

Lexy,     Yes,  sir. 

MoRELL  (patting  him  affectionately  on  the  shoulder). 
Take  my  silk  handkerchief  and  wrap  your  throat  up. 
There's  a  cold  wind.     Away  with  you. 

(Lexy  brightens  up,  and  goes  out.) 

Burgess.  Spoilin'  your  curates,  as  usu'l,  James. 
Good  mornin'.  When  I  pay  a  man,  an'  'is  livin'  depen's 
on  me,  I  keep  him  in  his  place. 

MoRELL  (^rather  shortly).  I  always  keep  my  curates 
in  their  places  as  my  helpers  and  comrades.  If  you  get 
as  much  work  out  of  your  clerks  and  warehousemen  as  I 
do  out  of  my  curates,  you  must  be  getting  rich  pretty 
fast.     Will  you  take  your  old  chair  ? 

(7/e  points  with  curt  authority  to  the  arm  chair  beside 
the  fireplace;  then  takes  the  spare  chair  from  the  table 
and  sits  down  in  front  of  Burgess.) 

Burgess  (without  moving).  Just  the  same  as  hever, 
James ! 

MoRELL.  When  you  last  called — it  was  about  three 
years  ago,  I  think — you  said  the  same  thing  a  little  more 
frankly.  Your  exact  words  then  were:  "Just  as  big 
a  fool  as  ever,  James  ?  " 

Burgess  (soothingly).  Well,  perhaps  I  did;  but 
(with  conciliatory  cheerfulness)  I  meant  no  offence  by 
it.  A  clorgyman  is  privileged  to  be  a  bit  of  a  fool, 
you  know:  it's  on'y  becomin'  in  his  profession  that  he 
should.  Anyhow,  I  come  here,  not  to  rake  up  hold  dif- 
ferences, but  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  (Suddenly 
becoming  very  solemn,  and  approaching  Morell.) 
James :  three  year  ago,  you  done  me  a  hill  turn.  You 
done  me  hout  of  a  contrac';  an'  when  I  gev  you  'arsh 
words  in  my  nat'ral  disappointment,  you  turned  my 
daughrter  again  me.  Well,  I've  come  to  act  the  part  of 
a  Cherischin.  (Offering  his  hand.)  I  forgive  you, 
James. 

MoRELL  (starting  up).     Confound  your  impudence! 

Burgess  (retreating,  with  almost  lachrymose  depreca- 


Act  I  Candida  95 

Hon  of  this  treatment).  Is  that  becomin'  language  for 
a  clorgyman,  James? — and  you  so  partic'lar,  too? 

MoRELL  (Jiotly).  No,  sir,  it  is  not  becoming  langVjdge 
for  a  clergyman.  I  used  the  wrong  word.  I  should  have 
said  damn  your  impudence:  that's  what  St.  Paul,  Oy^  any 
honest  priest  would  have  said  to  you.  Do  you  tL»nk  I 
have  forgotten  that  tender  of  yours  for  the  contract  to 
supply  clothing  to  the  workhouse? 

Burgess  (in  a  paroxysm  of  public  spirit).  I  acted 
in  the  interest  of  the  ratepayers,  James.  It  was  the 
lowest  tender:  you  can't  deny  that. 

MoRELL.  Yes,  the  lowest,  because  you  paid  worse 
wages  than  any  other  employer — starvation  wages — aye, 
worse  than  starvation  wages — to  the  women  who  made 
the  clothing.  Your  wages  would  have  driven  them  to  the 
streets  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  {Getting  angrier 
and  angrier.)  Those  women  were  my  parishioners.  I 
shamed  the  Guardians  out  of  accepting  your  tender:  I 
shamed  the  ratepayers  out  of  letting  them  do  it:  I  shamed 
everybody  but  you.  (Boiling  over.)  How  dare  you,  sir, 
come  here  and  offer  to  forgive  me,  and  talk  about  your 
daughter,  and 

Burgess.  Easy,  James,  easy,  easy.  Don't  git  hinto 
a  fluster  about  nothink.     I've  howned  I  was  wrong. 

Morell  (fuming  about).  Have  you?  I  didn't  hear 
you. 

Burgess.  Of  course  I  did.  I  hown  it  now.  Come:  I 
harsk  your  pardon  for  the  letter  I  wrote  you.  Is  that 
enough  ? 

MoRELL  (snapping  his  fingers).  That's  nothing. 
Have  you  raised  the  wages? 

Burgess   (triumphantly).     Yes. 

MoRELL  (stopping  dead).     What! 

Burgess  (unctuously).  I've  turned  a  moddle  hem- 
ployer.  I  don't  hemploy  no  women  now:  they're  all 
sacked;  and  the  work  is  done  by  machinery.  Not  a 
man  'as  less  than  sixpence  a  ^our;  and  the  skilled  'ands 


96  Candida  Act  I 

gits  the  Trade  Union  rate.  {Proudly.)  What  'ave  you  to 
say  to  me  now? 

MoRELL  {overwhelmed).  Is  it  possible!  Well, 
there's  more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repent- 
eth —  {Going  to  Burgess  with  an  explosion  of  apologetic 
cordiality.)  My  dear  Burgess,  I  most  heartily  beg 
your  pardon  for  my  hard  thoughts  of  you.  {Grasps  his 
hand.)  And  now,  don't  you  feel  the  better  for  the 
change.?  Come,  confess,  you're  happier.  You  look 
happier. 

Burgess  {ruefully).  Well,  p'raps  I  do.  I  s'pose  I 
must,  since  you  notice  it.  At  all  events,  I  git  my  contrax 
asseppit  (accepted)  by  the  County  Council.  {Savagely.) 
They  dussent  'ave  nothink  to  do  with  me  unless  I  paid 
fair  wages — curse  'em  for  a  parcel  o'  meddlin'  fools ! 

MoRELL  {dropping  his  hand,  utterly  discouraged). 
So  that  was  why  you  raised  the  wages!  {He  sits  down 
moodily.) 

Burgess  {severely,  in  spreading,  -mounting  tones). 
Why  else  should  I  do  it.?  What  does  it  lead  to  but 
drink  and  huppishness  in  workin'  men.?  {He  seats  him- 
self magisterially  in  the  easy  chair.)  It's  hall  very  well 
for  you,  James :  it  gits  you  hinto  the  papers  and  makes 
a  great  man  of  you;  but  you  never  think  of  the  'arm 
you  do,  puttin'  money  into  the  pockets  of  workin'  men 
that  they  don't  know  'ow  to  spend,  and  takin'  it  from 
people  that  might  be  makin'  a  good  huse  on  it. 

MoRELL  {with  a  heavy  sigh,  speaking  with  cold  polite- 
ness). What  is  your  business  with  me  this  morning? 
I  shall  not  pretend  to  believe  that  you  are  here  merely 
out  of  family  sentiment. 

Burgess  {obstinately).  Yes,  I  ham — just  family 
sentiment  and  nothink  else. 

Morell  {with  weary  calm).     I  don't  believe  you! 

Burgess  {rising  threateningly).  Don't  say  that  to 
me  again,  James  Mavor  Morell. 

Morell  {unmoved).     I'll  say  it  just  as  often  as  may 


Act  I  Candida  97 

be  necessary  to  convince  you  that  it's  true.  I  don't  be- 
lieve you. 

Burgess  {collapsing  into  an  abyss  of  wounded  feel- 
ing). Oh,  well,  if  you're  determined  to  be  unfriendly, 
I  s'pose  I'd  better  go.  {He  moves  reluctantly  towards 
the  door.  Morell  makes  no  sign.  He  lingers.)  I  didn't 
hexpect  to  find  a  hunforgivin'  spirit  in  you,  James. 
(Morell  still  not  responding,  he  takes  a  few  more  re- 
luctant steps  doorwards.  Then  he  comes  hack  whining.) 
We  huseter  git  on  well  enough,  spite  of  our  different 
opinions.  Why  are  you  so  changed  to  me?  I  give  you 
my  word  I  come  here  in  pyorr  (pure)  frenliness,  not 
wishin'  to  be  on  bad  terms  with  my  hown  daughr- 
ter's  'usban'.  Come,  James:  be  a  Cheristhin  and  shake 
'ands.  {He  puts  his  hand  sentimentally  on  Morell's 
shoulder.) 

MoRKLL  {looking  up  at  him  thoughtfully).  Look 
here.  Burgess.  Do  you  want  to  be  as  welcome  here  as  you 
were  before  you  lost  that  contract.'' 

Burgess.      I  do,  James.     I  do — honest. 

Morell.  Then  why  don't  you  behave  as  you  did 
then  ? 

Burgess  {cautiously  removing  his  hand).  'Ow  d'y* 
mean? 

Morell.  I'll  tell  you.  You  thought  me  a  young 
fool  then. 

Burgess  {coaxingly).     No,  I  didn't,  James.     I 

Morell  {cutting  him  short).  Yes,  you  did.  And  I 
thought  you  an  old  scoundrel. 

Burgess  {most  vehemently  deprecating  this  gross  self- 
accusation  on  Morell's  part).  No,  you  didn't,  James. 
Now  you  do  yourself  a  hin justice. 

Morell.  Yes,  I  did.  Well,  that  did  not  prevent 
our  getting  on  very  well  together.  God  made  you  what 
I  call  a  scoundrel  as  he  made  me  vvhat  you  call  a  fool. 
{The  effect  of  this  observation  on  Burgess  is  to  itmove 
the   keystone   of   his    moral   arch.      He    becomes    bodily 


98  Candida  Act  I 

weak,  and,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Morell  in  a  helpless 
itare,  puts  out  his  hand  apprehensively  to  balance  him,- 
telf,  as  if  the  floor  had  suddenly  sloped  under  him. 
Morell  proceeds  in  the  same  tone  of  quiet  conviction.) 
It  was  not  for  me  to  quarrel  with  his  handiwork  in  the 
one  case  more  than  in  the  other.  So  long  as  you  come 
here  honestly  as  a  self-respecting,  thorough,  convinced 
scoundrel,  justifying  your  scoundrelism,  and  proud  of  it, 
you  are  welcome.  But  {and  now  Morell' s  tone  becomes 
formidable;  and  he  rises  and  strikes  the  back  of  the 
chair  for  greater  emphasis)  I  won't  have  you  here 
snivelling  about  being  a  model  employer  and  a  converted 
man  when  you're  only  an  apostate  with  your  coat  turned 
for  the  sake  of  a  County  Council  contract.  {He  nods  at 
him  to  enforce  the  point;  then  goes  to  the  hearth-rug, 
where  he  takes  up  a  comfortably  commanding  position 
■with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  continues)  No:  I  like  a 
man  to  be  true  to  himself,  even  in  wickedness.  Come 
now:  either  take  your  hat  and  go;  or  else  sit  down  and 
give  me  a  good  scoundrelly  reason  for  wanting  to  be 
friends  with  me.  (Burgess,  whose  emotions  have  sub- 
sided sufficiently  to  be  expressed  by  a  dazed  grin,  is 
relieved  by  this  concrete  proposition.  He  ponders  it  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  slowly  and  very  modestly,  sits  down 
in  the  chair  Morell  has  just  left.)  That's  right.  Now, 
out  with  it. 

Burgess  (chuckling  in  spite  of  himself).  Well,  you 
are  a  queer  bird,  James,  and  no  mistake.  But  (almost 
enthusiastically)  one  carnt  'elp  likin'  you;  besides,  as  I 
said  afore,  of  course  one  don't  take  all  a  clergyman  says 
seriously,  or  the  world  couldn't  go  on.  Could  it  now? 
(He  composes  himself  for  graver  discourse,  and  turning 
his  eyes  on  Morell  proceeds  with  dull  seriousness.)  Well, 
I  don't  mind  tellin'  you,  since  it's  your  wish  we  should  be 
free  with  one  another,  that  I  did  think  you  a  bit  of 
a  fool  once;  but  I'm  beginnin'  to  think  that  p'r'aps  I 
was  be'ind  the  times  a  bit. 


Act  I  Candida  99 

MoRELL  (delighted).  Aha!  You're  finding  that  out 
at  last,  are  you? 

Burgess  (portentously).  Yes,  times  'as  changed 
mor'n  I  could  a  believed.  Five  yorr  (year)  ago,  no  sen- 
sible man  would  a  thought  o'  takin'  up  with  your  ideas. 
I  hused  to  wonder  you  was  let  preach  at  all.  Why,  I 
know  a  clergyman  that  'as  bin  kep'  hout  of  his  job 
for  yorrs  by  the  Bishop  of  London,  although  the  pore 
feller's  not  a  bit  more  religious  than  you  are.  But 
to-day,  if  henyone  was  to  offer  to  bet  me  a  thousan' 
poun'  that  you'll  end  by  bein'  a  bishop  yourself,  I 
shouldn't  venture  to  take  the  bet.  You  and  yore  crew 
are  gettin'  hinfluential:  I  can  see  that.  They'll  'ave 
to  give  you  something  someday,  if  it's  only  to  stop 
yore  mouth.  You  'ad  the  right  instinc'  arter  all,  James: 
the  line  you  took  is  the  payin'  line  in  the  long  run  fur 
a  man  o'  your  sort. 

MoRELii  (decisively — offering  his  hand).  Shake 
hands.  Burgess.  Now  you're  talking  honestly.  I  don't 
think  they'll  make  me  a  bishop;  but  if  they  do,  I'll  in- 
troduce you  to  the  biggest  jobbers  I  can  get  to  come  to 
my  dinner  parties. 

Burgess  (who  has  risen  with  a  sheepish  grin  and  ac- 
cepted the  hand  of  friendship).  You  will  'ave  your 
joke,  James.     Our  quarrel's  made  up  now,  isn't  it-f* 

A  Woman's  Voice.     Say  yes,  James. 

Startled,  they  turn  quickly  and  find  that  Candida  has 
just  come  in,  and  is  looking  at  them  with  an  amused 
maternal  indulgence  which  is  her  characteristic  expres- 
sion. She  is  a  woman  of  S3,  well  built,  well  nourished, 
likely,  one  guesses,  to  become  matronly  later  on,  but  now 
quite  at  her  best,  with  the  double  charm  of  youth  and 
motherhood.  Her  ways  are  those  of  a  woman  who  has 
found  that  she  can  always  manage  people  by  engaging 
their  affection,  and  who  does  so  frankly  and  instinctively 
without  the  smallest  scruple.  >9o  far,  she  is  like  any 
other  pretty  woman  who  is  just  clever  enough  to  make 


100  Candida  Act  I 

the  most  of  her  sexual  attractions  for  trivially  selfish 
ends;  but  Candida's  serene  brow,  courageous  eyes,  and 
well  set  mouth  and  chin  signify  largeness  of  mind  and 
dignity  of  character  to  ennoble  her  cunning  in  the  af- 
fections. A  wisehearted  observer,  looking  at  her,  would 
at  once  guess  that  whoever  had  placed  the  Virgin  of  the 
Assumption  over  her  hearth  did  so  because  he  fancied 
some  spiritual  resemblance  between  them,  and  yet  would 
not  suspect  either  her  husband  or  herself  of  any  such 
idea,  or  indeed  of  any  concern  with  the  art  of  Titian. 

Just  now  she  is  in  bonnet  and  mantle,  laden  with  a 
strapped  rug  with  her  umbrella  stuck  through  it,  a  hand- 
bag, and  a  supply  of  illustrated  papers. 

MoRELL  (^shocked  at  his  remissness).  Candida! 
Why —  (looks  at  his  watch,  and  is  horrified  to  find  it  so 
late.)  My  darling!  (Hurrying  to  her  and  seising  the 
rug  strap,  pouring  forth  his  remorseful  regrets  all  the 
time.)  I  intended  to  meet  you  at  the  train.  I  let  the 
time  slip.  (Flinging  the  rug  on  the  sofa.)  I  was  so 
engrossed  by — (returning  to  her) — I  forgot — oh!  (He 
embraces  her  with  penitent  emotion.) 

Burgess  (a  little  shamefaced  and  doubtful  of  his  re- 
ception). How  orr  you,  Candy?  (She,  still  in  Morell's 
arms,  offers  him  her  cheek,  which  he  kisses.)  James  and 
me  is  come  to  a  unnerstandin' — a  /lonourable  unnerstand- 
in',     Ain'  we,  James? 

MoRELL  (impetuously).  Oh,  bother  your  under- 
standing! You've  kept  me  late  for  Candida.  (With 
compassionate  fervor.)  My  poor  love:  how  did  you  man- 
age about  the  luggage? — how 

Candida  (stopping  him.  and  disengaging  herself). 
There,  there,  there.  I  wasn't  alone.  Eugene  came  down 
yesterday;  and  we  traveled  up  together. 

MoRELL  (pleased).     Eugene! 

Candida.  Yes :  he's  struggling  with  my  luggage,  poor 
boy.  Go  out,  dear,  at  once;  or  he  will  pay  for  the  cab; 
and  I  don't  want  that.      (Morell  hurries  out.     Candida 


Act  I  Candida  101 

puts  down  her  handbag;  then  takes  off  her  mantle  and 
bonnet  and  puts  them  on  the  sofa  with  the  rug,  chatting 
meanwhile.)  Well^  papa,  liow  are  you  getting  on  at 
home  ? 

Burgess.  The  'ouse  ain't  worth  livin'  in  since  you 
left  it.  Candy.  I  wish  you'd  come  round  and  give  the 
gurl  a  talkin'  to.  Who's  this  Eugene  that's  come  with 
you? 

Candida.  Oh,  Eugene's  one  of  James's  discoveries. 
He  found  him  sleeping  on  the  Embankment  last  June. 
Haven't  you  noticed  our  new  picture  (pointing  to  the 
Virgin)  ?     He  gave  us  that. 

Burgess  (incredulously).  Gam!  D'you  mean  to  tell 
me — your  hown  father ! — that  cab  touts  or  such  like,  orf 
the  Embankment,  buys  pictur's  like  that.^  (Severely.) 
Don't  deceive  me.  Candy:  it's  a  'Igh  Church  pictur;  and 
James  chose  it  hisself. 

Candida.     Guess  again.     Eugene  isn't  a  cab  tout. 

Burgess.  Then  wot  is  he?  (Sarcastically.)  A  no- 
bleman, I  'spose, 

Candida  (delighted — nodding).  Yes.  His  uncle's  a 
peer — a  real  live  earl. 

Burgess  (not  daring  to  believe  such  good  news).     No! 

Candida.  Yes.  He  had  a  seven  day  bill  for  £55  in 
his  pocket  when  James  found  him  on  the  Embankment. 
He  thought  he  couldn't  get  any  money  for  it  until  the 
seven  days  were  up;  and  he  was  too  shy  to  ask  for 
credit.     Oh,  he's  a  dear  boy !     We  are  very  fond  of  him. 

Burgess  (pretending  to  belittle  the  aristocracy,  but 
with  his  eyes  gleaming).  Hm,  I  thort  you  wovddn't  git 
a  piorr's  (peer's)  nevvy  visitin'  in  Victoria  Park  unless 
he  were  a  bit  of  a  flat.  (Looking  again  at  the  picture.) 
Of  course  I  don't  'old  with  that  pictur.  Candy;  but 
still  it's  a  'igh  class,  fust  rate  work  of  art:  I  can  see 
that.  Be  sure  you  hintroduce  me  to  him.  Candy.  (He 
looks  at  his  watch  ajixiously.)  I  can  only  stay  about 
two  minutes. 


102  Candida  Act  I 

Morell  comes  back  with  Eugene,  whom  Burgess  con- 
templates moist-eyed  with  enthusiasvi.  He  is  a  strange, 
shy  youth  of  eighteen,  slight,  effeminate,  with  a  delicate 
childish  voice,  and  a  hunted,  tormented  expression  and 
shrinking  manner  that  shew  the  painful  sensitiveness 
that  very  swift  and  acute  apprehensiveness  produces  in 
youth,  before  the  character  has  grown  to  its  full  strength. 
Yet  everything  that  his  timidity  and  fraility  suggests  is 
contradicted  by  his  face.  He  is  miserably  irresolute, 
does  not  know  where  to  stand  or  what  to  do  with  his 
hands  and  feet,  is  afraid  of  Burgess,  and  would  run  away 
into  solitude  if  he  dared;  but  the  very  intensity  with 
which  he  feels  a  perfectly  commonplace  position  shews 
great  nervous  force,  and  his  nostrils  and  mouth  shew  a 
fiercely  petulant  wilfulness,  as  to  the  quality  of  which 
his  great  imaginative  eyes  and  fine  brow  are  reassuring. 
He  is  so  entirely  uncommon  as  to  be  almost  unearthly ; 
and  to  prosaic  people  there  is  something  noxious  in  this 
unearthliness,  just  as  to  poetic  people  there  is  something 
angelic  in  it.  His  dress  is  anarchic.  He  wears  an  old 
blue  serge  jacket,  unbuttoned  over  a  woolen  lawn  tennis 
shirt,  with  a  silk  handkerchief  for  a  cravat,  trousers 
matching  the  jacket,  and  brown  canvas  shoes.  In  these 
garments  he  has  apparently  lain  in  the  heather  and 
waded  through  the  waters;  but  there  is  no  evidence  of 
his  having  ever  brushed  them. 

As  he  catches  sight  of  a  stranger  on  entering,  he 
stops,  and  edges  along  the  wall  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room. 

Morell  {as  he  enters).  Come  along:  you  can  spare 
us  quarter  of  an  hour,  at  all  events.  This  is  my  father- 
in-law,  Mr.  Burgess — Mr.  Marchbanks. 

Marchbanks  {nervously  backing  against  the  book- 
case).    Glad  to  meet  you,  sir. 

Burgess  {crossing  to  him  with  great  heartiness,  whilst 
Morell  joins  Candida  at  the  fire).  Glad  to  meet  you, 
I'm   shore,   Mr.    Morchbanks.      {Forcing   him    to   shake 


Act  I  Candida  103 

hands.)  'Ow  do  you  find  yoreself  this  weather?  'Ope 
you  ain't  lettin*  James  put  no  foolish  ideas  into  your 
'ed? 

Marchbanks.  Foolish  ideas !  Oh,  you  mean  So- 
cialism.     No. 

Burgess.  That's  right.  (Again  looking  at  his 
watch.)  Well,  I  must  go  now:  there's  no  'elp  for  it. 
Yo're  not  comin'  my  way,  are  you,  Mr.  Morchbanks? 

Marchbanks.     Which  way  is  that? 

Burgess.  Victawriar  Pork  Station.  There's  a  city 
train   at    12:25. 

MoRELL.  Nonsense.  Eugene  will  stay  to  lunch  with 
us,  I  expect. 

Marchbanks  (anxiously  excusing  himself).  No — I 
—I 

Burgess.  Well,  well,  I  shan't  press  you:  I  bet  you'd 
rather  lunch  with  Candy.  Some  night,  I  'ope,  you'll 
come  and  dine  with  me  at  my  club,  the  Freeman  Found- 
ers in  Nortn  Folgit.     Come,  say  you  will. 

Marchbanks.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Burgess.  Where  is 
Norton  Folgate — down  in  Surrey,  isn't  it?  (Burgess, 
inexpressibly  tickled,  begins  to  splutter  rvitli  laugJiter.) 

Candida  (coming  to  the  rescue).  You'll  lose  your 
train,  papa,  if  you  don't  go  at  once.  Come  back  in  the 
afternoon  and  tell  Mr.  Marchbanks  where  to  find  the 
club. 

Burgess  (roaring  with  glee).  Down  in  Surrey — har, 
har !  that's  not  a  bad  one.  Well,  I  never  met  a  man  as 
didn't  know  Nortn  Folgit  before.  (Abashed  at  his  own 
noisiness.)  Good-bye,  Mr.  Morchbanks:  I  know  you're 
too  'ighbred  to  take  my  pleasantry  in  bad  part.  (He 
again  offers  his  hand.) 

Marchbanks  (taking  it  with  a  nervous  jerk).  Not 
at  all. 

Burgess.  Bye,  bye.  Candy.  I'll  look  in  again  later 
on.     So  long,  James. 

Morell.     Must  you  go? 


104  Candida  Act  I 

Burgess.  Don't  stir.  {He  goes  out  with  unabated 
heartiness.) 

MoRELL.  Oh,  I'll  see  you  out.  (He  follows  him 
out.  Eugene  stares  after  them  apprehensively,  holding 
his  breath  until  Burgess  disappears.) 

Candida  (laughing).  Well,  Eugene.  (He  turns  with 
a  start  and  comes  eagerly  towards  her,  but  stops  irres- 
olutely as  he  meets  her  amused  look.)  What  do  you 
think  of  my  father? 

Marchbanks.  I — I  hardly  know  him  yet.  He 
seems  to  be  a  very  nice  old  gentleman. 

Candida  (7vith  gentle  irony).  And  you'll  go  to  the 
Freeman  Founders  to  dine  with  him,  won't  you? 

Marchbanks  (miserably,  taking  it  quite  seriously). 
Yes,  if  it  will  please  you. 

Candida  (touched).  Do  you  know,  you  are  a  very 
nice  boy,  Eugene,  with  all  your  queerness.  If  you  had 
laughed  at  my  father  I  shouldn't  have  minded;  but  I 
like  you  ever  so  much  better  for  being  nice  to  him. 

Marchbanks.  Ought  I  to  have  laughed?  I  noticed 
that  he  said  something  funny;  but  I  am  so  ill  at  ease 
with  strangers;  and  I  never  can  see  a  joke!  I'm  very 
sorry.  (He  sits  down  on  the  sofa,  his  elbows  on  his 
kyiees  and  his  temples  between  his  fists,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  hopeless  suffering.) 

Candida  (bustling  him  goodnaturedly) .  Oh,  come! 
You  great  baby,  you!  You  are  worse  than  usual  this 
morning.  Why  were  you  so  melancholy  as  we  came  along 
in  the  cab? 

Marchbanks.  Oh,  that  was  nothing.  I  was  won- 
dering how  much  I  ought  to  give  the  cabman.  I  know 
it's  utterly  silly;  but  you  don't  know  how  dreadful  such 
things  are  to  me — how  I  shrink  from  having  to  deal 
with  strange  people.  (Quickly  and  reassuringly.)  But 
it's  all  right.  He  beamed  all  over  and  touched  his  hat 
when  Morell  gave  him  two  shillings.  I  was  on  the  point 
of  offering  him  ten.     (Candida  laughs  heartily.     Morell 


Act  I  Candida  105 

comes  hack  with  a  few  letters  and  newspapers  which  have 
come  by  the  midday  post.) 

Candida.  Oh,  James,  dear,  he  was  going  to  give  the 
cabman  ten  shillings — ten  shillings  for  a  three  minutes' 
drive — oh,  dear  ! 

MoRELL  (at  the  table,  glancing  through  the  letters). 
Never  mind  her,  Marchbanks.  The  overpaying  instinct 
is  a  generous  one:  better  than  the  vmderpaying  instinct, 
and  not  so  common. 

Marchbanks  (relapsing  into  dejection).  No:  cow- 
ardice, incompetence.     Mrs.  Morell's  quite  right. 

Candida.  Of  course  she  is.  (She  takes  up  her  hand- 
bag.) And  now  I  must  leave  you  to  James  for  the 
present.  I  suppose  you  are  too  much  of  a  poet  to  know 
the  state  a  woman  finds  her  house  in  when  she's  been 
away  for  three  weeks.  Give  me  my  rug.  (Eugene  takes 
the  strapped  rug  from  the  couch,  and  gives  it  to  her.  She 
takes  it  in  her  left  hand,  having  the  bag  in  her  right.) 
Now  hang  my  cloak  across  my  arm.  (He  obeys.)  Now 
my  hat.  (He  puts  it  into  the  hand  which  has  the  bag.) 
Now  open  the  door  for  me.  (He  hurries  up  before  her 
and  opens  the  door.)  Thanks.  (She  goes  out;  and 
Marchbanks  shuts  the  door.) 

MoRELL  (still  busy  at  the  table).  You'll  stay  to 
lunch,  Marchbanks,  of  course. 

Marchbanks  (scared).  I  mustn't.  (He  glances 
quickly  at  Morell,  but  at  once  avoids  his  frank  look,  and 
adds,  with  obvious  disingenuousness)     I  can't. 

MoRELL  (over  his  shoulder).     You  mean  you  won't. 

Marchbanks  (earnestly).  No:  I  should  like  to,  in- 
deed.    Thank  you  very  much.     But — but 

MoRELL  (breezily,  finishing  with  the  letters  and  com- 
ing close  to  him).  But — but — but — but — bosh!  If 
you'd  like  to  stay,  stay.  You  don't  mean  to  persuade  me 
you  have  anything  else  to  do.  If  you're  shy,  go  and 
take  a  turn  in  the  park  and  write  poetry  until  half  past 
one;  and  then  come  in  and  have  a  good  feed. 


106  Candida  Act  i 

Marciibanks.  Thank  you^  I  should  like  that  very- 
much.  But  I  really  musn't.  The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Morell 
told  me  not  to.  She  said  she  didn't  think  you'd  ask  me 
to  stay  to  lunch,  but  that  I  was  to  remember,  if  you  did, 
that  you  didn't  really  want  me  to.  (Plaintively.)  She 
said  I'd  understand;  but  I  don't.  Please  don't  tell  her 
I  told  you. 

MoRELL  (drolly).  Oh,  is  that  all.''  Won't  my  sug- 
gestion that  you  should  take  a  turn  in  the  park  meet 
the  difficulty.'' 

Marchbanks.     How? 

MoRELL  {exploding  good-humoredly) .  Why,  you 
duffer —  (But  this  hoisterousness  jars  himself  as  well 
as  Eugene.  He  checks  himself,  and  resumes,  with  af- 
fectionate seriousness)  No:  I  won't  put  it  in  that  way. 
My  dear  lad:  in  a  happy  marriage  like  ours,  there  is 
something  very  sacred  in  the  return  of  the  wife  to  her 
home.  {Marchbanks  looks  quickly  at  him,  half  anticipat- 
ing his  meaning.)  An  old  friend  or  a  truly  noble  and 
sympathetic  soul  is  not  in  the  way  on  such  occasions; 
but  a  chance  visitor  is.  (The  hunted,  horror-stricken  ex- 
pression comes  out  with  sudden  vividness  in  Eugene's 
face  as  he  understands.  Morell,  occupied  with  his  own 
thought,  goes  on  without  noticing  it.)  Candida  thought  I 
would  rather  not  have  you  here;  but  she  was  wrong.  I'm 
very  fond  of  you,  my  boy,  and  I  should  like  you  to 
see  for  yourself  what  a  happy  thing  it  is  to  be  married 
as  I  am. 

Marchbanks.  Happy! — your  marriage!  You  think 
that!     You  believe  that! 

MoRELL  (buoyantly).  I  know  it,  my  lad.  La  Roche- 
foucauld said  that  there  are  convenient  marriages,  but 
no  delightful  ones.  You  don't  know  the  comfort  of  see- 
ing through  and  through  a  thundering  liar  and  rotten 
cynic  like  that  fellow.  Ha,  ha!  Now  off  with  you  to 
the  park,  and  write  your  poem.  Half  past  one,  sharp, 
mind:  we  never  wait  for  anybody. 


Act  I  Candida  107 

Marchbanks  {wildly).  No:  stop:  you  shan't.  I'll 
force  it  into  the  light. 

MoRELL  {puzzled).     Eh.''     Force  what? 

Marchbanks.  I  must  speak  to  you.  There  is  some- 
thing that  must  be  settled  between  us. 

MoRELL  {with  a  whimsical  glance  at  the  clock), 
Now.^ 

Marchbanks  {passionately).  Now.  Before  you 
leave  this  room.  {He  retreats  a  few  steps,  and  stands  as 
if  to  bar  Morell's  way  to  the  door.) 

MoRELL  {without  moving,  and  gravely,  perceiving  now 
that  there  is  something  serious  the  matter).  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  leave  it,  my  dear  boy:  I  thought  you  were. 
{Eugene,  baffled  by  his  firm  tone,  turns  his  back  on 
him,  writhing  with  anger.  Morell  goes  to  him  and  puts 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder  strongly  and  kindly,  disregard- 
ing his  attempt  to  shake  it  off.)  Come:  sit  down  quietly; 
and  tell  me  what  it  is.  And  remember:  we  are  friends, 
and  need  not  fear  that  either  of  us  will  be  anything  but 
patient  and  kind  to  the  other,  whatever  we  may  have 
to  say. 

Marchbanks  {twisting  himself  round  on  him).  Oh, 
I  am  not  forgetting  myself:  I  am  only  {covering  his  face 
desperately  with  his  hands)  full  of  horror.  {Then,  drop- 
ping his  hands,  and  thrusting  his  face  forward  fiercely 
at  Morell,  he  goes  on  threateningly.)  You  shall  see 
whether  this  is  a  time  for  patience  and  kindness.  {Mo- 
rell, firm  as  a  rock,  looks  indulgently  at  him.)  Don't 
look  at  me  in  that  self-complacent  way.  You  think 
yourself  stronger  than  I  am;  but  I  shall  stagger  you  if 
you  have  a  heart  in  your  breast. 

Morell  {powerfully  confident).  Stagger  me,  my 
boy.     Out  with  it. 

Marchbanks.      First 

Morell.      First? 

Marchbanks.     I  love  your  wife. 

{Morell  recoils,  and,  after  staring  at  him  for  a  mo- 


108  Candida  Act  I 

ment  iii  utter  amazement,  bursts  into  uncontrollable 
laughter.  Eugene  is  taken  aback,  but  not  disconcerted; 
and  he  soon  becomes  indignant  and  contemptuous.) 

MoRELL  (sitting  down  to  have  his  laugh  out).  Why, 
my  dear  child,  of  course  you  do.  Everybody  loves  her: 
they  can't  help  it.  I  like  it.  But  (looking  up  whimsi- 
cally at  him)  I  say,  Eugene:  do  you  think  yours  is  a 
case  to  be  talked  about .^  You're  under  twenty:  she's 
over  thirty.  Doesn't  it  look  rather  too  like  a  case  of 
calf  love? 

Marchbanks  (vehemently).  You  dare  say  that  of 
her !  You  think  that  vray  of  the  love  she  inspires !  It  is 
an  insult  to  her ! 

MoRELL  (rising  quickly,  in  an  altered  tone).  To  her! 
Eugene:  take  care.  I  have  been  patient.  I  hope  to  re- 
main patient.  But  there  are  some  things  I  won't  allow. 
Don't  force  me  to  shew  you  the  indulgence  I  should 
shew  to  a  child.     Be  a  man. 

Marchbanks  (with  a  gesture  as  if  sweeping  some- 
thing behind  him).  Oh,  let  us  put  aside  all  that  cant. 
It  horrifies  me  when  I  think  of  the  doses  of  it  she  has 
had  to  endure  in  all  the  weary  years  during  which  you 
have  selfishly  and  blindly  sacrificed  her  to  minister  to 
your  self-sufficiency — you  (turning  on  him)  who  have 
not  one  thought — one  sense — in  common  with  her. 

MoRELL  (philosophically).  She  seems  to  bear  it 
pretty  well.  (Looking  him  straight  in  the  face.)  Eu- 
gene, my  boy :  you  are  making  a  fool  of  yourself — a  very 
great  fool  of  yourself.  There's  a  piece  of  wholesome 
plain  speaking  for  you, 

Marchbanks.  Oh,  do  you  think  I  don't  know  all 
that?  Do  you  think  that  the  things  people  make  fools 
of  themselves  about  are  any  less  real  and  true  than  the 
things  they  behave  sensibly  about?  (MoreU's  gaze 
wavers  for  the  first  time.  He  instinctively  averts  his 
face  and  stands  listening,  startled  and  thoughtful.) 
They  are  more  true:  they  are  the  only  things  that  are 


Act  I  Candida  109 

true.  You  are  very  calm  and  sensible  and  moderate  with 
me  because  you  can  see  that  I  am  a  fool  about  your 
wife;  just  as  no  doubt  that  old  man  who  was  here  just 
now  is  very  wise  over  your  socialism,  because  he  sees 
that  you  are  a  fool  about  it.  {Mor ell's  perplexity 
deepens  markedly.  Eugene  follorvs  up  his  advantage, 
plying  him  fiercely  with  questions.)  Does  that  prove 
you  wrong?  Does  your  complacent  superiority  to  me 
prove  that  /  am  wrong? 

MoRELL  (^turning  on  Eugene,  who  stands  his  ground). 
Marchbanks :  some  devil  is  putting  these  words  into  your 
mouth.  It  is  easy — terribly  easy — to  shake  a  man's  faith 
in  himself.  To  take  advantage  of  that  to  break  a  man's 
spirit  is  devil's  work.  Take  care  of  what  you  are  doing. 
Take  care. 

Marchbanks  (ruthlessly).  I  know.  I'm  doing  it  on 
purpose.     I  told  you  I  should  stagger  you. 

{They  confront  one  another  threateningly  for  a  mo- 
ment.    Then  Morell  recovers  his  dignity.) 

MoRELL  (with  noble  tenderness).  Eugene:  listen  to 
me.  Some  day,  I  hope  and  trust,  you  will  be  a  happy 
man  like  me.  (Eugene  chafes  intolerantly,  repudiating 
the  worth  of  his  happiness.  Morell,  deeply  insulted, 
controls  himself  with  fine  forbearance,  and  continues 
steadily,  with  great  artistic  beauty  of  delivery)  You 
will  be  married;  and  you  will  be  working  with  all  your 
might  and  valor  to  make  every  spot  on  earth  as  happy 
as  your  own  home.  You  will  be  one  of  the  makers  of 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  on  earth;  and — who  knows.'' — 
you  may  be  a  pioneer  and  master  builder  where  I  am  only 
a  humble  journeyman;  for  don't  think,  my  boy,  that  I 
cannot  see  in  you,  young  as  you  are,  promise  of  higher 
powers  than  I  can  ever  pretend  to.  I  well  know  that 
it  is  in  the  poet  that  the  holy  spirit  of  man — the  god 
within  him — is  most  godlike.  It  should  make  you  trem- 
ble to  think  of  that — to  think  that  the  heavy  burthen 
and  great  gift  of  a  poet  may  be  laid  upon  you. 


110  Candida  Act  I 

Marchbanks  (unimpressed  and  remorseless,  his  boy- 
ish crudity  of  assertion  telling  sharply  against  Morell's 
oratory).  It  does  not  make  me  tremble.  It  is  the  want 
of  it  in  others  that  makes  me  tremble. 

MoRELL  (redoubling  his  force  of  style  under  the 
stimulus  of  his  genuine  feeling  and  Eugene's  obduracy). 
Then  help  to  kindle  it  in  them — in  me — not  to  extinguish 
it.  In  the  future — when  you  are  as  happy  as  I  am — 
I  will  be  your  true  brother  in  the  faith.  I  will  help  you 
to  believe  that  God  has  given  us  a  world  that  nothing 
but  our  own  folly  keeps  from  being  a  paradise.  I  will 
help  you  to  believe  that  every  stroke  of  your  work  is 
sowing  happiness  for  the  great  harvest  that  all — even 
the  humblest — shall  one  day  reap.  And  last,  but  trust 
me,  not  least,  I  will  help  you  to  believe  that  your  wife 
loves  you  and  is  happy  in  her  home.  We  need  such 
help,  Marchbanks :  we  need  it  greatly  and  always.  There 
are  so  many  things  to  make  us  doubt,  if  once  we  let 
our  understanding  be  troubled.  Even  at  liome,  we  sit 
as  if  in  camp,  encompassed  by  a  hostile  army  of  doubts. 
Will  you  play  the  traitor  and  let  them  in  on  me? 

Marchbanks  (looking  round  him).  Is  it  like  this 
for  her  here  always?  A  woman,  with  a  great  soul,  crav- 
ing for  reality,  truth,  freedom,  and  being  fed  on  meta- 
phors, sermons,  stale  perorations,  mere  rhetoric.  Do  you 
think  a  woman's  soul  can  live  on  your  talent  for  preach- 
ing? 

MoRELL  (stung).  Marchbanks:  you  make  it  hard  for 
me  to  control  myself.  My  talent  is  like  yours  insofar 
as  it  has  any  real  worth  at  all.  It  is  the  gift  of  finding 
words  for  divine  truth. 

Marchbanks  (impetuously) .  It's  the  gift  of  the  gab, 
nothing  more  and  nothing  less.  What  has  your  knack 
of  fine  talking  to  do  with  the  truth,  any  more  than  play- 
ing the  organ  has?  I've  never  been  in  your  church;  but 
I've  been  to  your  political  meetings;  and  I've  seen  you 
do   what's    called    rousing   the    meeting   to   enthusiasm: 


Act  I  Candida  111 

that  is,  you  excited  them  until  they  behaved  exactly  as 
if  they  were  drunk.  And  their  wives  looked  on  and  saw 
clearly  enough  what  fools  they  were.  Oh,  it's  an  old 
story:  you'll  find  it  in  the  Bible.  I  imagine  King 
David,  in  his  fits  of  enthusiasm,  was  very  like  you. 
{Stabbing  him  with  these  words.)  "  But  his  wife  de- 
spised him  in  her  heart." 

MoRELL  (wrath fully) .  Leave  my  house.  Do  you 
hear.^      {He  advances  on  him  threateningly.) 

Marchbanks  (shrinking  back  against  the  couch). 
Let  me  alone.  Don't  touch  me.  (Morell  grasps  him 
powerfully  by  the  lappell  of  his  coat:  he  cowers  down  on 
the  sofa  and  screams  passionately.)  Stop,  Morell,  if  you 
strike  me,  I'll  kill  myself:  I  won't  bear  it.  (Almost  in 
hysterics.)     Let  me  go.     Take  your  hand  away. 

Morell  (with  slow,  emphatic  scorn).  You  little 
snivelling,  cowardly  whelp.  (Releasing  him.)  Go,  be- 
fore you  frigliten  yourself  into  a  fit. 

Marchbanks  (on  the  sofa,  gasping,  but  relieved  by 
the  withdrawal  of  Mor ell's  hand).  I'm  not  afraid  of 
you:  it's  you  who  are  afraid  of  me. 

Morell  (quietly,  as  he  stands  over  him).  It  looks 
like  it,  doesn't  it? 

Marchbanks  (with  petulant  vehemence).  Yes,  it 
does.  (Morell  turns  away  contemptuously.  Eugene 
scrambles  to  his  feet  and  follows  him.)  You  think  be- 
cause I  shrink  from  being  brutally  handled— because 
(with  tears  in  his  voice)  I  can  do  nothing  but  cry  with 
rage  when  I  am  met  with  violence — because  I  can't  lift 
a  heavy  trunk  down  from  the  top  of  a  cab  like  you — be- 
cause I  can't  fight  you  for  your  wife  as  a  navvy  would: 
all  that  makes  you  think  that  I'm  afraid  of  you.  But 
you're  wrong.  If  I  haven't  got  what  you  call  British 
pluck,  I  haven't  British  cowardice  either:  I'm  not  afraid 
of  a  clergyman's  ideas.  I'll  fight  your  ideas.  I'll  rescue 
her  from  her  slavery  to  them:  I'll  pit  my  own  ideas 
against  them.     You  are  driving  me  out  of  the  house  be- 


112  Candida  Act  I 

cause  you  daren't  let  her  choose  between  your  ideas  and 
mine.  You  are  afraid  to  let  me  see  her  again.  (Morell, 
angered,  turns  suddenly  on  him.  He  flies  to  the  door 
in  involuntary  dread.)     Let  me  alone,  I  say.     I'm  going. 

MoRELL  {with  cold  scorn).  Wait  a  moment:  I  am 
not  going  to  touch  you:  don't  be  afraid.  When  my  wife 
comes  back  she  will  want  to  know  why  you  have  gone. 
And  when  she  finds  that  you  are  never  g^ing  to  cross 
our  threshold  again,  she  will  want  to  have  that  explained, 
too.  Now  I  don't  wish  to  distress  her  by  telling  her  that 
you  have  behaved  like  a  blackguard. 

Marchbanks  {coming  back  with  renewed  vehemence). 
You  shall — you  must.  If  you  give  any  explanation  but 
the  true  one,  you  are  a  liar  and  a  coward.  Tell  her  what 
I  said;  and  how  you  were  strong  and  manly,  and  shook 
me  as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat;  and  how  I  shrank  and  was 
terrified;  and  how  you  called  me  a  snivelling  little  whelp 
and  put  me  out  of  the  house.  If  you  don't  tell  her, 
I  will:  I'll  write  it  to  her. 

MoRELL  {taken  aback).  Why  do  you  want  her  to 
know  this? 

Marchbanks  {with  lyric  rapture).  Because  she  will 
understand  me,  and  know  that  I  understand  her.  If  you 
keep  back  one  word  of  it  from  her — if  you  are  not  ready 
to  lay  the  truth  at  her  feet  as  I  am — then  you  will  know 
to  the  end  of  your  days  that  she  really  belongs  to  me 
and  not  to  you.     Good-bye.     {Going.) 

MoRELL  {terribly  disquieted).  Stop:  I  will  not  tell 
her. 

Marchbanks  {turning  near  the  door).  Either  the 
truth  or  a  lie  you  must  tell  her,  if  I  go. 

MoRELL  {temporising).  Marchbanks:  it  is  sometimes 
justifiable. 

Marchbanks  {cutting  him  short).  I  know — to  lie. 
It  will  be  useless.     Good-bye,  Mr.  Clergyman. 

{As  he  turns  finally  to  the  door,  it  opens  and  Candida 
enters  in  housekeeping  attire.) 


Act  I  Candida  113 

Candida.  Are  you  going,  Eugene?  (Looking  more 
observantly  at  him.)  Well,  dear  me,  just  look  at  you, 
going  out  into  the  street  in  that  state!  You  are  a  poet, 
certainly.  Look  at  him,  James !  {She  takes  him  by  the 
coat,  and  brings  him  forrvard  to  show  him  to  Morell.) 
Look  at  his  collar !  look  at  his  tie !  look  at  his  hair !  One 
would  think  somebody  had  been  throttling  you.  (The 
trvo  men  guard  themselves  against  betraying  their  con- 
sciousness.) Here!  Stand  still.  (She  buttons  his  col- 
lar; ties  his  neckerchief  in  a  borv;  and  arranges  his  hair.) 
There !  Now  you  look  so  nice  that  I  think  you'd  better 
stay  to  lunch  after  all,  though  I  told  you  you  mustn't. 
It  will  be  ready  in  half  an  hour.  (She  puts  a  final 
touch  to  the  bow.     He  kisses  her  hand.)     Don't  be  silly. 

Marchbanks.  I  want  to  stay,  of  course — unless  the 
reverend  gentleman,  your  husband,  has  anything  to  ad- 
vance to  the  contrary. 

Candida.  Shall  he  stay,  James,  if  he  promises  to  be 
a  good  boy  and  to  help  me  to  lay  the  table?  (March- 
banks  turns  his  head  and  looks  steadfastly  at  Morell  over 
his  shoulder,  challenging  his  answer.) 

Morell  (shortly).  Oh,  yes,  certainly:  he  had  bet- 
ter. (He  goes  to  the  table  and  pretends  to  busy  himself 
with  his  papers  there.) 

Marchbanks  (offering  his  arm  to  Candida).  Come 
and  lay  the  table.  (She  takes  it  and  they  go  to  the  door 
together.  As  they  go  out  he  adds)  I  am  the  happiest 
of  men. 

Morell.     So  was  I — an  hour  ago. 

END  OF  act  I. 


ACT    II 

The  same  day.  The  same  room.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon. The  spare  chair  for  visitors  has  been  replaced  at 
the  table,  which  is,  if  possible,  more  untidy  than  before. 
Marchbanhs,  alone  and  idle,  is  trying  to  find  out  how  the 
typewriter  works.  Hearing  someone  at  the  door,  he 
steals  guiltily  away  to  the  window  and  pretends  to  be 
absorbed  in  the  view.  Miss  Garnett,  carrying  the  note- 
book in  which  she  takes  down  Morell's  letters  in  short- 
hand from  his  dictation,  sits  down  at  the  typewriter  and 
sets  to  work  transcribing  them,  much  too  busy  to  notice 
Eugene.      Unfortunately  the  first  key  she  strikes  sticks. 

Proserpine.  Bother  !  You've  been  meddling  with  my 
tj'pewriter,  Mr.  Marchbanks;  and  there's  not  the  least 
use  in  your  trying  to  look  as  if  you  hadn't. 

Marchbanks  (timidly).  I'm  very  sorry.  Miss  Gar- 
nett.    I  only  tried  to  make  it  write. 

Proserpine.     Well,  you've  made  this  key  stick. 

Marchbanks  (earnestly).  I  assure  you  I  didn't 
touch  the  keys.  I  didn't,  indeed.  I  only  turned  a  little 
wheel.     (He  points  irresolutely  at  the  tension  wheel.) 

Proserpine.  Oh,  now  I  understand.  (She  sets  the 
machine  to  rights,  talking  volubly  all  the  time.)  I  sup- 
pose you  thougi'^t  it  was  a  sort  of  barrel-organ.  Nothing 
to  do  but  turn  the  handle,  and  it  would  write  a  beautiful 
love-letter  for  you  straight  off,  eh? 

Marchbanks  (seriously).  I  suppose  a  machine 
could  be  made  to  write  love-letters.  They're  all  the 
same,  aren't  they.'' 

114 


Act  n  Candida  115 

Proserpine  (^somewhat  indignantly:  any  such  discus- 
sion, except  by  way  of  pleasantry ,  being  outside  her  code 
of  manners').      How  do  I  know?     Why  do  you  ask  me? 

Marchbanks.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  clever 
people — people  who  can  do  business  and  write  letters, 
and  that  sort  of  thing — always  had  love  affairs. 

Proserpine  {rising,  outraged).  Mr.  Marchbanks! 
{She  looks  severely  at  him,  and  marches  with  much  dig- 
nity to  the  bookcase.) 

Marchbanks  (approaching  her  humbly).  I  hope  I 
baven't  offended  you.  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  alluded 
to  your  love  affairs. 

Proserpine  (plucking  a  blue  book  from  the  shelf  and 
turning  sharply  on  him).  I  haven't  any  love  affairs. 
How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing? 

Marchbanks  (simply).  Really!  Oh,  then  you  are 
shy,  like  me.     Isn't  that  so? 

Proserpine.  Certainly  I  am  not  shy.  What  do  you 
mean? 

Marchbanks  (secretly).  You  must  be:  that  is  the 
reason  there  are  so  few  love  affairs  in  the  world.  We  all 
go  about  longing  for  love:  it  is  the  first  need  of  our 
natures,  the  loudest  cry  of  our  hearts;  but  we  dare  not 
utter  our  longing:  we  are  too  shy.  (Very  earnestly.) 
Oh,  Miss  Garnett,  what  would  you  not  give  to  be  with- 
out  fear,   without   shame 

Proserpine  (scandalized^.     Well,  upon  my  word! 

Marchbanks  (with  petulant  impatience).  Ah,  don't 
say  those  stupid  things  to  me:  they  don't  deceive  me: 
what  use  are  they?  Why  are  you  afraid  to  be  your 
real  self  with  me?     I  am  just  like  you. 

Proserpine.  Like  me!  Pray,  are  you  flattering  me 
or  flattering  yourself?  I  don't  feel  quite  sure  which. 
(She  turns  to  go  back  to  the  typewriter.) 

Marchbanks  (stopping  her  mysteriously).  Hush!  I 
go  about  in  search  of  love;  and  I  find  it  in  unmeasured 
stores    in   the   bosoms    of   others.      But   when    I   try   to 


116  Candida  Act  n 

ask  for  it,  this  horrible  shyness  strangles  me;  and  I 
stand  dumb,  or  worse  than  dumb,  saying  meaningless 
things — foolish  lies.  And  I  see  the  affection  I  am  long- 
ing for  given  to  dogs  and  cats  and  pet  birds,  because 
they  come  and  ask  for  it.  {Almost  whispering.)  It 
must  be  asked  for:  it  is  like  a  ghost:  it  cannot  speak 
unless  it  is  first  spoken  to.  (At  his  normal  pitch,  but 
with  deep  melancholy.)  All  the  love  in  the  world  is 
longing  to  speak;  only  it  dare  not,  because  it  is  shy, 
shy,  shy.  That  is  the  world's  tragedy,  (With  a  deep 
sigh  he  sits  in  the  spare  chair  and  buries  his  face  in  his 
hands.) 

Proserpine  (amazed,  but  keeping  her  wits  about  her 
— her  point  of  honor  in  encounters  with  strange  young 
men).  Wicked  people  get  over  that  shyness  occasion- 
ally, don't  they? 

Marchbanks  (scrambling  up  almost  fiercely). 
Wicked  people  means  people  who  have  no  love:  there- 
fore they  have  no  shame.  They  have  the  power  to  ask 
love  because  they  don't  need  it:  they  have  the  power  to 
offer  it  because  they  have  none  to  give.  (He  collapses 
into  his  seat,  and  adds,  mournfully)  But  we,  who  have 
love,  and  long  to  mingle  it  with  the  love  of  others:  we 
cannot  utter  a  word.  (Timidly.)  You  find  that,  don't 
you? 

Proserpine.  Look  here:  if  you  don't  stop  talking 
like  this,  I'll  leave  the  room,  Mr.  Marchbanks:  I  really 
will.     It's  not  proper. 

(She  resumes  her  seat  at  the  typewriter,  opening  the 
blue  book  and  preparing  to  copy  a  passage  from  it.) 

Marchbanks  (hopelessly).  Nothing  that's  worth 
saying  is  proper.  (He  rises,  and  wanders  about  the 
room  in  his  lost  way,  saying)  I  can't  understand  you. 
Miss  Garnett.     What  am  I  to  talk  about? 

Proserpine  (snubbing  him).  Talk  about  indifferent 
things.     Talk  about  the  weather. 

Marchbanks.     Would  you  stand  and  talk  about  in- 


Act  II  Candida  117 

different  things  if  a  child  were  by,  crying  bitterly  with 
hunger  ? 

Proserpine.     I  suppose  not. 

Marchbanks.  Well:  /  can't  talk  about  indifferent 
things  with  my  heart  crying  out  bitterly  in  its  hunger. 

Proserpine.     Then  hold  your  tongue. 

Marchbanks.  Yes:  that  is  what  it  always  comes  to. 
We  hold  our  tongues.  Does  that  stop  the  cry  of  your 
heart.'' — for  it  does  cry:  doesn't  it?  It  must,  if  you 
have  a  heart. 

Proserpine  {suddenly  rising  with  her  hand  pressed 
on  her  heart).  Oh,  it's  no  use  trying  to  work  while  you 
talk  like  that.  {She  leaves  her  little  table  and  sits  on  the 
sofa.  Her  feelings  are  evidently  strongly  worked  on.) 
It's  no  business  of  yours,  whether  my  heart  cries  or 
not;  but  I  have  a  mind  to  tell  you,  for  all  that. 

Marchbanks.  You  needn't.  I  know  already  that  it 
must. 

Proserpine.  But  mind:  if  you  ever  say  I  said  so, 
I'll  deny  it. 

Marchbanks  {compassionately) .  Yes,  I  know.  And 
so  you  haven't  the  courage  to  tell  him? 

Proserpine    {bouncing  up).     Him!     Who? 

Marchbanks.  Whoever  he  is.  The  man  you  love. 
It  might  be  anybody.     The  curate,  ^Ir.  Mill,  perhaps. 

Proserpine  {with  disdain).  Mr.  Mill!!!  A  fine  man 
to  break  my  heart  about,  indeed!  I'd  rather  have  you 
than  Mr.  Mill. 

Marchbanks  {recoiling).  No,  really — I'm  very 
sorry;  but  you  mustn't  think  of  that.     I 

Proserpine  {testily,  crossing  to  the  fire  and  standing 
at  it  with  her  back  to  him).  Oh,  don't  be  frightened: 
it's  not  you.     It's  not  any  one  particular  person. 

Marchbanks.  I  know.  You  feel  that  you  could  love- 
anybody  that  offered 

Proserpine  {exasperated).  Anybody  that  offered! 
No,  I  do  not.    What  do  you  take  me  for? 


118  Candida  Act   II 

Marchbanks  {discouraged).  No  use.  You  won't 
make  me  real  answers — only  those  things  that  everybody 
says.  {He  strays  to  the  sofa  and  sits  down  disconso- 
lately.) 

Proserpine  {nettled  at  what  she  takes  to  he  a  dis- 
paragement of  her  manners  by  an  aristocrat) .  Oh,  well, 
if  you  want  original  conversation,  you'd  better  go  and 
talk  to  yourself. 

Marchbanks.  That  is  what  all  poets  do:  they  talk 
to  themselves  out  loud;  and  the  world  overhears  them. 
But  it's  horribly  lonely  not  to  hear  someone  else  talk 
sometimes. 

Proserpine.  Wait  until  Mr.  Morell  comes.  He'll 
talk  to  you.  {Marchbanks  shudders.)  Oh,  you  needn't 
make  wry  faces  over  him:  he  can  talk  better  than  you. 
{With  temper.)  He'd  talk  your  little  head  off.  {She  is 
going  back  angrily  to  her  place,  when,  suddenly  enlight- 
ened, he  springs  up  and  stops  her.) 

Marchbanks.     Ah,  I  understand  now ! 

Proserpine   {reddening).     What  do  you  vmderstand .f* 

Marchbanks.  Your  secret.  Tell  me:  is  it  really  and 
truly  possible  for  a  woman  to  love  him? 

Proserpine  {as  if  this  were  beyond  all  bounds). 
Well ! ! 

Marchbanks  {passionately).  No,  answer  me.  I 
want  to  know:  I  must  know.  I  can't  understand  it.  I 
can  see  nothing  in  him  but  words,  pious  resolutions,  what 
people  call  goodness.     You  can't  love  that. 

Proserpine  {attempting  to  snub  him  by  an  air  of  cool 
propriety).  I  simply  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about.     I  don't  understand  you. 

Marchbanks  {vehemently).     You  do.     You  lie 

Proserpine.     Oh ! 

Marchbanks.  You  do  understand;  and  you  know. 
{Determined  to  have  an  answer.)  Is  it  possible  for  a 
woman  to  love  him.^ 

Proserpine  {looking  him  straight  in  the  face).     Yes. 


Act  II  Candida  119 

{He  covers  his  face  with  his  hands.)  Whatever  is  the 
matter  with  you!  (He  takes  down  his  hands  and  loohs 
at  her.  Frightened  at  the  tragic  mask  presented  to  her, 
she  hurries  past  him  at  the  utmost  possible  distance, 
keeping  her  eyes  on  his  face  until  he  turns  from  her  and 
goes  to  the  child's  chair  beside  the  hearth,  where  he  sits 
in  the  deepest  dejection.  As  she  approaches  the  door,  it 
opens  and  Burgess  enters.  On  seeing  him,  she  ejacu- 
lates) Praise  heaven,  here's  somebody!  (and  sits  down, 
reassured,  at  her  table.  She  puts  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper 
into  the  typewriter  as  Burgess  crosses  to  Eugene.) 

Burgess  (bent  on  taking  care  of  the  distinguished  vis- 
itor). Well:  so  this  is  the  way  they  leave  you  to  your- 
self, Mr.  Morchbanks.  I've  come  to  keep  you  company. 
(Marchbanks  looks  up  at  him  in  consternation,  which 
is  quite  lost  on  him.)  James  is  receivin'  a  deppitation  in 
the  dinin'  room;  and  Candy  is  hupstairs  educatin'  of  a 
young  stitcher  gurl  she's  hinterested  in.  She's  settin' 
there  learnin'  her  to  read  out  of  the  "  'Ev'nly  Twins." 
(Condolingly.)  You  must  find  it  lonesome  here  with  no 
one  but  the  typist  to  talk  to.  (He  pulls  round  the  easy 
chair  above  fire,  and  sits  down.) 

Proserpine  (highly  incensed).  He'll  be  all  right 
now  that  he  has  the  advantage  of  your  polished  conver- 
sation :  that's  one  comfort,  anyhow.  (She  begins  to  type- 
write with  clattering  asperity.) 

Burgess  (amazed  at  her  audacity).  Hi  was  not  ad- 
dressin'  myself  to  you,  young  woman,  that  I'm  awerr  of. 

Proserpine  (tartly,  to  Marchbanks).  Did  you  ever 
see  worse  manners,  Mr.  Marchbanks  ? 

Burgess  (with  pompous  severity).  Mr.  Morchbanks 
is  a  gentlem^an  and  knows  his  place,  which  is  more  than 
some  people  do. 

Proserpine  (fretfully).  It's  well  you  and  I  are  not 
ladies  and  gentlemen:  I'd  talk  to  you  pretty  straight  if 
Mr.  Marchbanks  wasn't  here.  (She  pulls  the  letter  out 
of  the  machine  so  crossly  that  it  tears.)      There,  now 


120  Candida  Act  II 

I've  spoiled  this  letter — liave  to  be  done  all  over  again. 
Oh,  I  can't  contain  myself — silly  old  fathead! 

Burgess  (rising,  breathless  rvith  indignation).  Ho! 
I'm  a  silly  ole  fat'ead,  am  I?  Ho,  indeed  (gasping). 
Hall  right,  my  gurl!  Hall  right.  You  just  wait  till  I 
tell  that  to  your  employer.  You'll  see.  I'll  teach  you: 
see  if  I  don't. 

Proserpine.     I 

Burgess  (cutting  her  short).  No,  you've  done  it  now. 
No  huse  a-talkin'  to  me.  I'll  let  you  know  who  I  am. 
(Proserpine  shifts  her  paper  carriage  with  a  defiant  bang, 
and  disdainfully  goes  on  with  her  work.)  Don't  you 
take  no  notice  of  her,  Mr.  Morchbanks.  She's  beneath 
it.     (He  sits  down  again  loftily.) 

Marchbanks  (miserably  nervous  and  disconcerted). 
Hadn't  we  better  change  the  subject.  I — I  don't  think 
Miss  Garnett  meant  anything. 

Proserpine  (with  intense  conviction).  Oh,  didn't  I 
though,  just! 

Burgess.  I  wouldn't  demean  myself  to  take  notice  on 
her. 

(An  electric  bell  rings  twice.) 

Proserpine  (gathering  up  her  note-book  and  papers). 
That's  for  me.     (She  hurries  out.) 

Burgess  (calling  after  her).  Oh,  we  can  spare  j^ou. 
(Somewhat  relieved  by  the  triumph  of  having  the  last 
word,  and  yet  half  inclined  to  try  to  improve  on  it, 
he  looks  after  her  for  a  moment;  then  subsides  into 
his  seat  by  Eugene,  and  addresses  him  very  confiden- 
tially.) Now  we're  alone,  Mr.  Morchbanks,  let  me 
give  you  a  friendly  'int  that  I  wouldn't  give  to  every- 
body. 'Ow  long  'ave  you  known  my  son-in-law  James 
here? 

Marchbanks.  I  don't  know.  I  never  can  remember 
dates.     A  few  months,  perhaps. 

Burgess.     Ever  notice  anything  queer  about  him? 

Marchbanks.     I  don't  think  so. 


Act  II  Candida  121 

Burgess     {impressively).     No     more     you     wouldn't. 
That's  the  danger  in  it.     Well,  he's  mad. 
Marchbanks.     Mad ! 

Burgess,     Mad  as  a  Morch  'are.     You  take  notice  on 
him  and  you'll  see. 

Marchbanks    (beginning).     But  surely  that  is  only 
because  his  opinions 

Burgess  {touching  him  with  his  forefinger  on  his 
Jcnee,  and  pressing  it  as  if  to  hold  his  attention  with  it). 
That's  wot  I  used  ter  think,  Mr.  Morchbanks.  Hi 
thought  long  enough  that  it  was  honly  'is  opinions; 
though,  mind  you,  hopinions  becomes  vurry  serious  things 
when  people  takes  to  hactin  on  'em  as  'e  does.  But 
that's  not  wot  I  go  on.  {He  looks  round  to  make  sure 
that  they  are  alone,  and  bends  over  to  Eugene's  ear.) 
Wot  do  you  think  he  says  to  me  this  mornin'  in  this  very 
room? 

Marchbanks.     What? 

Burgess.  He  sez  to  me — this  is  as  sure  as  we're  settin' 
here  now — he  sez:  "I'm  a  fool,"  he  sez;  "and  yore  a 
scounderl  " — as  cool  as  possible.  Me  a  scounderl,  mind 
you!  And  then  shook  'ands  with  me  on  it,  as  if  it  was 
to  my  credit!  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  that  man's 
sane? 

MoRELL  {outside,  calling  to  Proserpine,  holding  the 
door  open).  Get  all  their  names  and  addresses.  Miss 
Garnett. 

Proserpine  {in  the  distance).     Yes,  Mr.  Morell. 

{Morell  comes  in,  with  the  deputation's  documents  in 
his  hands.) 

Burgess  {aside  to  Marchbanks).  Yorr  he  is.  Just 
you  keep  your  heye  on  him  and  see.  {Rising  moment- 
ously.) I'm  sorry,  James,  to  'ave  to  make  a  complaint 
to  you.  I  don't  want  to  do  it;  but  I  feel  I  oughter,  as 
a  matter   o'   right   and  dooty. 

Morell.     What's  the  matter. 

Burgess.     Mr.  Morchbanks  will  bear  me  out :  he  was  a 


122  Candida  Act  n 

witness.      (Vert/  solemnly.)     Your  young  woman  so  far 
forgot  herself  as  to  call  me  a  silly  ole  fat'ead. 

MoRELL  {delighted — 7vith  tremendous  heartiness). 
Oh,  now,  isn't  that  exactly  like  Prossy?  She's  so 
frank:  she  can't  contain  herself!     Poor  Prossy!  Ha!  Ha! 

Burgess  (trembling  with  rage).  And  do  you  hexpec 
me  to  put  up  with  it  from  the  like  of  'er? 

MoRELL.  Pooh,  nonsense!  you  can't  take  any  notice 
of  it.  Never  mind.  {He  goes  to  the  cellaret  and  puts 
the  papers  into  one  of  the  drawers.) 

Burgess.  Oh,  /  don't  mind.  I'm  above  it.  But  is 
it  right.^ — that's  what   I  want  to  know.     Is  it  right? 

MoRELL.  That's  a  question  for  the  Church,  not  for 
the  laity.  Has  it  done  you  any  harm,  that's  the  ques- 
tion for  you,  eh?  Of  course,  it  hasn't.  Think  no  more 
of  it.  {He  dismisses  the  subject  by  going  to  his  place 
at  the  table  and  setting  to  work  at  his  correspondence.) 

Burgess  {aside  to  Marchbanks).  What  did  I  tell 
you?  Mad  as  a  'atter.  {He  goes  to  the  table  and  asks, 
with  the  sickly  civility  of  a  hungry  man)  When's  din- 
ner, James? 

Morell.     Not  for  half  an  hour  yet. 

Burgess  {with  plaintive  resignation).  Gimme  a  nice 
book  to  read  over  the  fire,  will  you,  James :  thur's  a  good 
chap. 

Morell.     What  sort  of  book?    A  good  one? 

Burgess  {with  almost  a  yell  of  remonstrance). 
Nah-oo!  Summat  pleasant,  just  to  pass  the  time.  (Mo- 
rell takes  an  illustrated  paper  from  the  table  and  offers 
it.  He  accepts  it  humbly.)  Thank  yer,  James.  (He 
goes  back  to  his  easy  chair  at  the  fire,  and  sits  there  at 
his  ease,  reading.) 

Morell  {as  he  writes).  Candida  will  come  to  enter- 
tain you  presently.  She  has  got  rid  of  her  pupil.  She  is 
filling  the  lamps. 

Marchbanks  {starting  up  in  the  wildest  consterna- 
tion).    But  that  will  soil  her  hands.     I  can't  bear  that. 


Act  II  Candida  123 

Morell:  it's  a  shame.  I'll  go  and  fill  them.  {He  makes 
for  the  door.) 

Morell.  You'd  better  not.  (Marchhanks  stops  ir- 
resolutely.) She'd  only  set  you  to  clean  my  boots,  to  save 
me  the  trouble  of  doing  it  myself  in  the  morning. 

Burgess  (with  grave  disapproval).  Don't  you  keep 
a  servant  now,  James.'' 

Morell.  Yes;  but  she  isn't  a  slave;  and  the  house 
looks  as  if  I  kept  three.  That  means  that  everyone  has 
to  lend  a  hand.  It's  not  a  bad  plan:  Prossy  and  I  can 
talk  business  after  breakfast  whilst  we're  washing  up. 
Washing  up's  no  trouble  when  there  are  two  people  to 
do  it. 

Marchbanks  (tormentedly) .  Do  you  think  every 
woman  is  as  coarse-grained  as  Miss  Gamett? 

Burgess  {emphatically).  That's  quite  right,  Mr. 
Morchbanks.     That's  quite  right.     She  is  corse-grained. 

Morell   {quietly  and  significantly).     Marchbanks! 

Marchbanks.     Yes. 

Morell.     How  many  servants  does  your  father  keep  ? 

Marchbanks.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  (He  comes  back 
uneasily  to  the  sofa,  as  if  to  get  as  far  as  possible  from 
Morell's  questioning,  and  sits  down  in  great  agony  of 
mind,  thinking  of  the  paraffin.) 

Morell  (very  gravely).  So  many  that  you  don't 
know.  (More  aggressively.)  Anyhow,  when  there's 
anything  coarse-grained  to  be  done,  you  ring  the  bell 
and  throw  it  on  to  somebody  else,  eh?  That's  one  of 
the  great  facts  in  your  existence,  isn't  it? 

Marchbanks.  Oh,  don't  torture  me.  The  one  great 
fact  now  is  that  your  wife's  beautiful  fingers  are  dab- 
bling in  paraffin  oil,  and  that  you  are  sitting  here  com- 
fortably preaching  about  it — everlasting  preaching, 
preaching,  words,  words,  words. 

Burgess  (intensely  appreciating  this  retort).  Ha,  ha! 
Devil  a  better.  (Radiantly.)  'Ad  you  there,  James, 
«rtraight. 


124  Candida  Act  II 

(Cajidida  comes  in,  well  aproned,  with  a  reading  lamp 
trimmed,  filled,  and  ready  for  lighting.  She  places  it  on 
the  table  near  Morell,  ready  for  use.) 

Candida  (brushing  her  finger  tips  together  with  a 
slight  twitch  of  her  nose).  If  you  stay  with  us^  Eugene, 
I  think  I  will  hand  over  the  lamps  to  you, 

Marchbanks,  I  will  stay  on  condition  that  you  hand 
over  all  the  rough  work  to  me. 

Candida.  Thatis  very  gallant;  but  I  think  I  should 
like  to  see  how  you  do  it  first.  (Turning  to  Morell.) 
James :  you've  not  been  looking  after  the  house  properly. 

Morell.     What  have  I  done — or  not  done — my  love? 

Candida  (with  serious  vexation).  My  own  particular 
pet  scrubbing  brush  has  been  used  for  blackleading.  (A 
heartbreaking  wail  bursts  from  Marchbanks.  Burgess 
looks  round,  amazed.  Candida  hurries  to  the  sofa.) 
What's  the  matter.''     Are  you  ill^  Eugene.'' 

Marchbanks.  No,  not  ill.  Only  horror,  horror,  hor- 
ror!    (He  bows  his  head  on  his  hands.) 

Burgess  (shocked).  What!  Got  the  'errors,  Mr. 
Morchbanks !  Oh,  that's  bad,  at  your  age.  You  must 
leave  it  off  grajally. 

Candida  (reassured).  Nonsense,  papa.  It's  only 
poetic  horror,  isn't  it,  Eugene?     (Petting  him.) 

Burgess  (abashed).  Oh,  poetic  'orror,  is  it?  I  beg 
your  pordon,  I'm  shore.  (He  turns  to  the  fire  again, 
deprecating  his  hasty  conclusion.) 

Candida.  What  is  it,  Eugene — the  scrubbing  brush? 
(He  shudders.)  Well,  there !  never  mind.  (She  sits 
down  beside  him.)  Wouldn't  you  like  to  present  me  with 
a  nice  new  one,  with  an  ivory  back  inlaid  with  mother~ 
of-pearl  ? 

Marchbanks  (softly  and  musically,  but  sadly  and 
longingly).  No,  not  a  scrubbing  brush,  but  a  boat — a 
tiny  shallop  to  sail  away  in,  far  from  the  world,  where 
the  marble  floors  are  washed  by  the  rain  and  dried  by 
the  sun,  where  the  south  wind  dusts  the  beautiful  green 


Act  II  Candida  125 

and  purple  carpets.  Or  a  chariot — to  carry  us  up  into 
the  sky^  where  the  lamps  are  stars,  and  don't  need  to 
be  filled  with  paraffin  oil  every  day. 

MoRELL  {harshly).  And  where  there  is  nothing  to  do 
but  to  be  idle,  selfish  and  useless. 

Candida  {jarred).  Oh,  James,  how  could  you  spoil 
it  all ! 

Marchbanks  {firing  up).  Yes,  to  be  idle,  selfish  and 
useless:  that  is  to  be  beautiful  and  free  and  happy: 
hasn't  every  man  desired  that  with  all  his  soul  for  the 
woman  he  loves .^  That's  my  ideal:  what's  yours,  and 
that  of  all  the  dreadful  people  who  live  in  these  hideous 
rows  of  houses  ?  Sermons  and  scrubbing  brushes  !  With 
you  to  preach  the  sermon  and  your  wife  to  scrub. 

Candida  {quaintly).  He  cleans  the  boots,  Eugene. 
You  will  have  to  clean  them  to-morrow  for  saying  that 
about  him. 

Marchbanks,  Oh!  don't  talk  about  boots.  Your 
feet  should  be  beautiful  on  the  mountains. 

Candida.  My  feet  would  not  be  beautiful  on  the 
Hackney  Road  without  boots. 

Burgess  {scandalized).  Come,  Candy,  don't  be  vul- 
gar. Mr.  Morchbanks  ain't  accustomed  to  it.  You're 
givin'  him  the  'orrors  again.     I  mean  the  poetic  ones. 

{Morell  is  silent.  Apparently  he  is  busy  with  his 
letters:  really  he  is  puzzling  with  misgiving  over  his  new 
and  alarming  experience  that  the  surer  he  is  of  his  moral 
thrusts,  the  more  swiftly  and  effectively  Eugene  parries 
them.  To  find  himself  beginning  to  fear  a  man  whom 
he  does  not  respect  afflicts  him  bitterly.) 

{Miss  Garnett  comes  in  with  a  telegram.) 

Proserpine  {handing  the  telegram  to  Morell).  Reply 
paid.  The  boy's  waiting.  {To  Candida,  coming  back 
to  her  machine  and  sitting  down.)  Maria  is  ready  for 
you  now  in  the  kitchen,  Mrs.  Morell.  {Candida  rises.) 
The  onions  have  come. 

Marchbanks  {convulsively).     Onions! 


126  Candida  Act  II 

Candida.  Yes,  onions.  Not  even  Spanish  ones — 
nasty  little  red  onions.  You  shall  help  me  to  slice  them. 
Come  along. 

(She  catches  him  by  the  wrist  and  runs  out,  pulling 
him  after  her.  Burgess  rises  in  consternation,  and  stands 
aghast  on  the  hearth-rug,  staring  after  them.^ 

Burgess.  Candy  didn't  oughter  'andle  a  peer's  nevvy 
like  that.  It's  goin'  too  fur  with  it.  Lookee  'ere,  James: 
do  'e  often  git  taken  queer  like  that? 

MoRELL  {shortly,  w7-iting  a  telegram).     I  don't  know. 

Burgess  {sentimentally).  He  talks  very  pretty,  I 
alius  had  a  turn  for  a  bit  of  potery.  Candy  takes  arter 
me  that-a-way:  huse  ter  make  me  tell  her  fairy  stories 
when  she  was  on'y  a  little  kiddy  not  that  'igh  {indicating 
a  stature  of  two  feet  or  thereabouts) . 

MoRELL  {preoccupied).  Ah,  indeed,  {He  blots  the 
telegram,  and  goes  out.) 

Proserpine.  Used  you  to  make  the  fairy  stories  up 
out  of  your  own  head? 

{Burgess,  not  deigning  to  reply,  strikes  an  attitude 
of  the  haughtiest  disdain  on  the  hearth-rug.) 

Proserpine  {calmly).  I  should  never  have  supposed 
you  had  it  in  you.  By  the  way,  I'd  better  warn  you^ 
since  you've  taken  such  a  fancy  to  Mr,  Marchbanks. 
He's  mad. 

Burgess.     Mad!     Wot!     'Im  too!! 

Proserpine,  Mad  as  a  March  hare.  He  did  frighten 
me,  I  can  tell  you,  just  before  you  came  in  that  time. 
Haven't  you  noticed  the  queer  things  he  says? 

Burgess.  So  that's  wot  the  poetic  'orrors  means. 
Blame  me  if  it  didn't  come  into  my  head  once  or  twyst 
that  he  must  be  off  his  chump!  {He  crosses  the  room 
to  the  door,  lifting  up  his  voice  as  he  goes.)  Well,  this 
is  a  pretty  sort  of  asylum  for  a  man  to  be  in,  with  no 
one  but  you  to  take  care  of  him ! 

Proserpine  {as  he  passes  her).  Yes,  what  a  dreadfjil 
thing  it  would  be  if  anything  happened  to  you! 


Act  n  Candida  127 

Burgess  (loftily).  Don't  you  address  no  remarks  to 
me.  Tell  your  hemployer  that  I've  gone  into  the  garden 
for  a  smoke. 

Proserpine   (mocking).     Oh! 

(Before  Burgess  can  retort,  Morell  comes  back.) 

Burgess  (sentimentally)  Goin'  for  a  turn  in  the  gar- 
den to  smoke,  James. 

Morell  (brusquely).  Oh,  all  right,  all  right.  (Bur- 
gess goes  out  pathetically  in  the  character  of  the  weary 
old  man.  Morell  stands  at  the  table,  turning  over  his 
papers,  and  adding,  across  to  Proserpine,  half  humor- 
ously, half  absently)  Well,  Miss  Prossy,  why  have  you 
been  calling  my  father-in-law  names? 

Proserpine  (blushing  fiery  red,  and  looking  quickly 
up  at  him,  half  scared,  half  reproachful).  I —  (She 
bursts  into  tears.) 

Morell  (with  tender  gaiety,  leaning  across  the  table 
towards  her,  and  consoling  her).     Oh,  come,  come,  come!. 
Never  mind,  Pross:  he  is  a  silly  old  fathead,  isn't  he? 

(With  an  explosive  sob,  she  makes  a  dash  at  the  door, 
and  vanishes,  banging  it.  Morell,  shaking  his  head  re- 
signedly, sighs,  and  goes  wearily  to  his  chair,  where  he 
sits  down  and  sets  to  work,  looking  old  and  careworn.) 

(Candida  comes  in.  She  has  finished  her  household 
tvork  and  taken  off  the  apron.  She  at  once  notices  his 
dejected  appearance,  and  posts  herself  quietly  at  the 
spare  chair,  looking  down  at  him  attentively ;  but  she 
says  nothing.) 

Morell  (looking  up,  but  with  his  pen  raised  ready  to 
resume  his  work).     Well?     Where  is  Eugene? 

Candida.  Washing  his  hands  in  the  scullery — under 
the  tap.  He  will  make  an  excellent  cook  if  he  can  only 
get  over  his  dread  of  Maria. 

ISIoRELL  (shortly).  Ha!  No  doubt.  (He  begins 
writing  again.) 

Candida  (going  nearer,  and  putting  her  hand  down 
softly  an  his  to  stop  him,  as  she  says).     Come  here,  dear. 


128  Candida  Act  II 

Let  me  look  at  you.  {He  drops  his  pen  and  yields  him- 
self at  her  disposal.  She  makes  him  rise  and  brings  him 
a  little  away  from  the  table,  looking  at  him  critically  all 
the  time.)  Turn  your  face  to  the  light.  {She  places 
him  facing  the  window.)  My  boy  is  not  looking  well. 
Has  he  been  overworking? 

MoRELL.     Nothing  more  than  usual. 

Candida.  He  looks  very  pale,  and  grey,  and  wrin- 
kled, and  old.  {His  melancholy  deepens;  and  she  attacks 
it  with  wilful  gaiety.)  Here  {pulling  him  towards  the 
easy  chair)  you've  done  enough  writing  for  to-day. 
Leave  Prossy  to  finish  it  and  come  and  talk  to  me. 

MoRELL.      But 

Candida.  Yes,  I  must  be  talked  to  sometimes.  {She 
makes  him  sit  down,  and  seats  herself  on  the  carpet 
beside  his  knee.)  Now  {patting  his  hand)  you're  be- 
ginning to  look  better  already.  Why  don't  you  give  up 
all  this  tiresome  overworking — going  out  every  night 
lecturing  and  talking?  Of  course  what  you  say  is  all 
very  true  and  very  right ;  but  it  does  no  good :  they  don't 
mind  what  you  say  to  them  one  little  bit.  Of  course  they 
agree  with  you;  but  what's  the  use  of  people  agreeing 
with  you  if  they  go  and  do  just  the  opposite  of  what  you 
tell  them  the  moment  your  back  is  turned?  Look  at  our 
congregation  at  St.  Dominic's !  Why  do  they  come  to 
hear  you  talking  about  Christianity  every  Sunday? 
Why,  just  because  they've  been  so  full  of  business  and 
money-making  for  six  days  that  they  want  to  forget 
all  about  it  and  have  a  rest  on  the  seventh,  so  that 
they  can  go  back  fresh  and  make  money  harder  than 
ever !  You  positively  help  them  at  it  instead  of  hindering 
them. 

MoRELL  {with  energetic  seriousness).  You  know  very 
well,  Candida,  that  I  often  blow  them  up  soundly  for 
that.  But  if  there  is  nothing  in  their  church-going  but 
rest  and  diversion,  why  don't  they  try  something  more 
amusing — more    self-indulgent?      There   must   be   some 


Act  II  Candida  129 

good  in  the  fact  that  they  prefer  St.  Dominic's  to  worse 
places  on  Sundays. 

Candida.  Oh^  the  worst  places  aren't  open;  and  even 
if  they  were,  they  daren't  be  seen  going  to  them.  Be- 
sides, James,  dear,  you  preach  so  splendidly  that  it's  as 
good  as  a  play  for  them.  Why  do  you  think  the  women 
are  so  enthusiastic  ? 

MoRELL  {shocked).     Candida! 

Candida.  Oh,  /  know.  You  silly  boy:  you  think  it's 
your  Socialism  and  your  religion;  but  if  it  was  that, 
they'd  do  what  you  tell  them  instead  of  only  coming  to 
look  at  you.     They  all  have  Prossy's  complaint. 

MoRELL.  Prossy's  complaint !  What  do  you  mean, 
Candida .'' 

Candida.  Yes,  Prossy,  and  all  the  other  secretaries 
you  ever  had.  Why  does  Prossy  condescend  to  wash  up 
the  things,  and  to  peel  potatoes  and  abase  herself  in  all 
manner  of  ways  for  six  shillings  a  week  less  than  she 
used  to  get  in  a  city  office?  She's  in  love  with  you, 
James:  that's  the  reason.  They're  all  in  love  with  you. 
And  you  are  in  love  with  preaching  because  you  do  it  so 
beautifully.  And  you  think  it's  all  enthusiasm  for  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven  on  earth;  and  so  do  they.  You  dear 
siUy ! 

MoRELL.  Candida:  what  dreadful,  what  soul-destroy- 
ing cynicism!  Are  you  jesting.^'  Or — can  it  bei' — are 
you  jealous.'' 

Candida  (with  curious  thought  fulness) .  Yes,  I  feel  a 
little  jealous  sometimes. 

MoRELL  (incredulously).     What!     Of  Prossy! 

Candida  (laughing) .  No,  no,  no,  no.  Not  jealous  of 
anybod}^  Jealous  for  somebody  else,  who  is  not  loved  as 
he  ought  to  be. 

MoRELL.     Me! 

Candida.  You  !  WTiy,  you're  spoiled  with  love  and 
worship:  you  get  far  more  than  is  good  for  you.  No:  I 
mean  Eugene. 


130  Candida  Act  II 

MoRELL  (startled).     Eugene! 

Candida.  It  seems  unfair  that  all  the  love  should  go 
to  you,  and  none  to  him,  although  he  needs  it  so  much 
more  than  you  do.  (A  convulsive  movement  shakes  him 
in  spite  of  himself.)  What's  the  matter.''  Am  I  worry- 
ing you? 

MoRELL,  {hastily).  Not  at  all.  {Looking  at  her  with 
troubled  intensity.)  You  know  that  I  have  perfect  con- 
fidence in  you,  Candida. 

Candida.  You  vain  thing!  Are  you  so  sure  of  your 
irresistible  attractions  ? 

MoRELL.  Candida:  you  are  shocking  me.  I  never 
thought  of  my  attractions.  I  thought  of  your  goodness 
— your  purity.     That  is  what  I  confide  in. 

Candida.  What  a  nasty,  imcomfortable  thing  to  say 
to  me!  Oh,  you  are  a  clergyman,  James — a  thorough 
clergyman. 

MoRELL  {turning  away  from  her,  heart-stricken).  So 
Eugene  says. 

Candida  {with  lively  interest,  leaning  over  to  him  with 
her  arms  on  his  knee).  Eugene's  always  right.  He's  a 
wonderful  boy:  I  have  grown  fonder  and  fonder  of  him 
all  the  time  I  was  away.  Do  you  know,  James,  that 
though  he  has  not  the  least  suspicion  of  it  himself,  he  is 
ready  to  fall  madly  in  love  with  me.'' 

MoRELL  {grimly).  Oh,  he  has  no  suspicion  of  it  him- 
self, hasn't  he? 

Candida.  Not  a  bit.  {She  takes  her  arms  from  his 
knee,  and  turns  thoughtfully,  sinking  into  a  more  restful 
attitude  with  her  hands  in  her  lap.)  Some  day  he  will 
know — when  he  is  grown  up  and  experienced,  like  you. 
And  he  will  know  that  I  must  have  known.  I  wonder 
what  he  will  think  of  me  then. 

MoRELL.     No  evil,  Candida.     I  hope  and  trust,  no  evil. 

Candida  {dubiously).     That  will  depend. 

MoRELL  {bewildered).     Depend! 

Candida   {looking  at  him).     Yes:  it  will  depend  on 


Act  n  Candida  131 

what  happens  to  him.  {He  looks  vacantly  at  her.) 
Don't  you  see?  It  will  depend  on  how  he  comes  to  learn 
what  love  really  is.  I  mean  on  the  sort  of  woman  who 
will  teach  it  to  him. 

MoRELL  (quite  at  a  loss).  Yes.  No.  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean. 

Candida  (explaining).  If  he  learns  it  from  a  good 
woman,  then  it  will  be  all  right:  he  will  forgive  me. 

MoRELL.     Forgive! 

Candida.  But  suppose  he  learns  it  from  a  bad  woman, 
as  so  many  men  do,  especially  poetic  men,  who  imagine 
all  women  are  angels !  Suppose  he  only  discovers  the 
value  of  love  when  he  has  thrown  it  away  and  degraded 
himself  in  his  ignorance.  Will  he  forgive  me  then,  do 
you  think? 

MoRELL.     Forgive  you  for  what? 

Candida  (realizing  how  stupid  he  is,  and  a  little  dis- 
appointed, though  quite  tenderly  so).  Don't  you  under- 
stand? (He  shakes  his  head.  She  turns  to  him  again, 
so  as  to  explain  with  the  fondest  intimacy.)  I  mean, 
will  he  forgive  me  for  not  teaching  him  myself?  For 
abandoning  him  to  the  bad  women  for  the  sake  of  my 
goodness — my  purity,  as  you  call  it?  Ah,  James,  how 
little  you  understand  me,  to  talk  of  your  confidence  in 
my  goodness  and  purity!  I  would  give  them  both  to 
poor  Eugene  as  willingly  as  I  would  give  my  shawl  to 
a  beggar  dying  of  cold,  if  there  were  nothing  else  to 
restrain  me.  Put  your  trust  in  my  love  for  you,  James, 
for  if  that  went,  I  should  care  very  little  for  your  ser- 
mons— mere  phrases  that  you  cheat  yourself  and  others 
with  every  day.     (She  is  about  to  rise.) 

MoRELL.     His  words! 

Candida  (checking  herself  quickly  in  the  act  of  get- 
ting up,  so  that  she  is  on  her  knees,  but  upright). 
Whose  words? 

MoRELL.     Eugene's. 

Candida  (delighted).    He  is  always  right.    He  under- 


132  Candida  Act  II 

stands  you;  he  understands  me;  he  understands  Prossy; 
and  you,  James — you  understand  nothing.  (She  laughs, 
and  kisses  him  to  console  him.  He  recoils  as  if  stung, 
and  springs  up.) 

MoRELL.  How  can  you  bear  to  do  that  when — oh, 
Candida  (with  anguish  in  his  voice)  I  had  rather  you 
had  plunged  a  grappling  iron  into  my  heart  than  given 
me  that  kiss. 

Candida  (rising,  alarmed).  My  dear:  what's  the 
matter  } 

MoRELL  (frantically  waving  her  off).   Don't  touch  me. 

Candida  (amazed).     James! 

(They  are  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Marchhanhs, 
with  Burgess,  who  stops  near  the  door,  staring,  whilst 
Eugene  hurries  forward  between  them.) 

Marchbanks.     Is  anything  the  matter.'' 

MoRELL  (deadly  white,  putting  an  iron  constraint  on 
himself).  Nothing  but  this:  that  either  you  were  right 
this  morning,  or  Candida  is  mad. 

Burgess  (in  loudest  protest).  Wot!  Candy  mad  too! 
Oh,  come,  come,  come !  (He  crosses  the  room  to  the  fire- 
place, protesting  as  he  goes,  and  knocks  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe  on  the  bars.  Morell  sits  down  desperately, 
leaning  forward  to  hide  his  face,  and  interlacing  his 
fingers  rigidly  to  keep  them  steady.) 

Candida  (to  Morell,  relieved  and  laughing).  Oh, 
you're  only  shocked!  Is  that  all?  How  conventional 
all  you  unconventional  people  are ! 

Burgess.  Come:  be'ave  yourself.  Candy.  What'll 
Mr.  Morchbanks  think  of  you? 

Candida.  This  comes  of  James  teaching  me  to  think 
for  myself,  and  never  to  hold  back  out  of  fear  of  what 
other  people  may  think  of  me.  It  works  beautifully  as 
long  as  I  think  the  same  things  as  he  does.  But  now, 
because  I  have  just  thought  something  different! — look 
at  him — ^just  look!  (She  points  to  Morell,  greatly 
amused.     Eugene  looks,  and  instantly  presses  his  hand 


Act  II  Candida  13S 

on  his  heart,  as  if  some  deadly  pain  had  shot  through 
it,  and  sits  down  on  the  sofa  like  a  man  witnessing  a 
tragedy. ) 

Burgess  (on  the  hearth-rug).  Well,  James,  you  cer- 
tainly ain't  as  himpressive  lookin'  as  usu'l. 

MoRELL  (with  a  laugh  which  is  half  a  sob).  I  sup- 
pose not.  I  beg  all  your  pardons:  I  was  not  conscious 
of  making  a  fuss.  (Pulling  himself  together.)  Well, 
well,  well,  well,  well !  (He  goes  back  to  his  place  at  the 
table,  setting  to  work  at  his  papers  again  with  resolute 
cheerfulness.) 

Candida  (going  to  the  sofa  and  sitting  beside  March- 
hanks,  still  in  a  bantering  humor).  Well,  Eugene,  why 
are  you  so  sad.''     Did  the  onions  make  you  cry.'' 

(Morell  cannot  prevent  himself  from  watching  them.) 

Marchbanks  (aside  to  her).  It  is  your  cruelty.  I 
hate  cruelty.  It  is  a  horrible  thing  to  see  one  person 
make  another  suffer. 

Candida  (petting  him  ironically).  Poor  boy,  have  I 
been  cruel?     Did  I  make  it  slice  nasty  little  red  onions .-^ 

Marchbanks  (earnestly).  Oh,  stop,  stop:  I  don't 
mean  myself.  You  have  made  him  suffer  frightfully.  I 
feel  his  pain  in  my  own  heart.  I  know  that  it  is  not  your 
fault — it  is  something  that  must  happen;  but  don't  make 
light  of  it.     I  shudder  when  you  torture  him  and  laugh. 

Candida  (incredulously).  I  torture  James!  Non- 
sense, Eugene:  how  you  exaggerate !  Silly!  (She  looks 
round  at  Morell,  who  hastily  resumes  his  writing.  She 
goes  to  him  and  stands  behind  his  chair,  bending  over 
him.)     Don't  work  any  more,  dear.     Come  and  talk  to  us. 

Morell  (affectionately  but  bitterly).  Ah  no:  /  can't 
talk.     I  can  only  preach. 

Candida  (caressing  him).    Well,  come  and  preach. 

Burgess  (strongly  remonstrating).  Aw,  no.  Candy. 
'Ang  it  all ! 

(Lexy  Mill  comes  in,  looking  anxious  and  important.) 

Lexy  (hastening  to  shake  hands  with  Candida).     How 


134  Candida  Act  II 

do  you  do,  Mrs.  Morell?  So  glad  to  see  you  back 
again. 

Candida.  Thank  you,  Lexy.  You  know  Eugene, 
don't  you? 

Lexy.     Oh,  yes.     How  do  you  do,  Marchbanks  .-* 

Marchbanks.     Quite  well,  thanks. 

Lexy  (to  Morell).  I've  just  come  from  the  Guild  of 
St.  Matthew.  They  are  in  the  greatest  consternation 
about  your  telegram.     There's  nothing  wrong,  is  there? 

Candida.     What  did  you  telegraph  about,  James  ? 

Lexy  (to  Candida).  He  was  to  have  spoken  for  them 
to-night.  They've  taken  the  large  hall  in  Mare  Street 
and  spent  a  lot  of  money  on  posters.  Morell's  telegram 
was  to  say  he  couldn't  come.  It  came  on  them  like  a 
thunderbolt. 

Candida  {surprized,  and  beginning  to  suspect  some- 
thing rvrong).     Given  up  an  engagement  to  speak! 

Burgess.  First  time  in  his  life,  I'll  bet.  Ain'  it, 
Candy  ? 

Lexy  {to  Morell).  They  decided  to  send  an  urgent 
telegram  to  you  asking  whether  you  could  not  change 
your  mind.     Have  you  received  it? 

Morell  {with  restrained  impatience).  Yes,  yes:  I 
got  it. 

Lexy.     It  was  reply  paid. 

Morell.     Yes,  I  know.     I  answered  it.     I  can't  go. 

Candida.     But  why,  James? 

Morell  {almost  fiercely).  Because  I  don't  choose. 
These  people  forget  that  I  am  a  man:  they  think  I  am  a 
talking  machine  to  be  turned  on  for  their  pleasure  every 
evening  of  my  life.  May  I  not  have  one  night  at  kome, 
with  my  wife,  and  my  friends  ? 

{They  are  all  amazed  at  this  outburst,  except  Eugene. 
His  expression  remains  unchanged.) 

Candida.  Oh,  James,  you  know  you'll  have  an  attack 
of  bad  conscience  to-morrow;  and  I  shall  have  to  suffer 
for  that. 


Act  n  Candida  135 

Lexy  {intimidated,  hut  urgent).  I  know,  of  course, 
that  they  make  the  most  mireasonable  demands  on  you. 
But  they  have  been  telegraphing  all  over  the  place  for 
another  speaker :  and  they  can  get  nobody  but  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Agnostic  League. 

MoRELL  {promptly).  Well,  an  excellent  man.  What 
better  do  they  want? 

Lexy.  But  he  always  insists  so  powerfully  on  the 
divorce  of  Socialism  from  Christianity.  He  will  xmdo 
all  the  good  we  have  been  doing.  Of  course  you  know 
best;  but —     {He  hesitates.) 

CxKT>iB\  {coaxingly).    Oh,  do  go,  James.    We'll  all  go. 

Burgess  {grumbling).  Look  'ere.  Candy!  I  say! 
Let's  stay  at  home  by  the  fire,  comfortable.  He  won't 
need  to  be  more'n  a  couple-o'-hour  away. 

Candida.  You'll  be  just  as  comfortable  at  the  meet- 
ing.    We'll  all  sit  on  the  platform  and  be  great  people. 

Eugene  {terrified) .  Oh,  please  don't  let  us  go  on  the 
platform.  No — everyone  will  stare  at  us — I  couldn't. 
I'll  sit  at  the  back  of  the  room. 

Candida.  Don't  be  afraid.  They'll  be  too  busy  look- 
ing at  James  to  notice  you. 

Morell  {turning  his  head  and  looking  meaningly  at 
her  over  his  shoulder).  Prossy's  complaint,  Candida! 
Eh? 

Candida  {gaily).     Yes. 

Burgess  {mystified).  Prossy's  complaint.  Wot  are 
you  talking  about,  James  ? 

MoRELL  {not  heeding  him,  rises;  goes  to  the  door;  and 
holds  it  open,  shouting  in  a  commanding  voice).  Miss 
Garnett. 

Proserpine  {in  the  distance).  Yes,  Mr.  Morell. 
Coming. 

{They  all  rvait,  except  Burgess,  who  goes  stealthily 
to  Lexy  and  draws  him  aside.) 

Burgess.  Listen  here,  Mr.  MiU.  Wot's  Prossy's 
complaint?     Wot's  wrong  with  'er? 


(36  Candida  Act  n 

Lexy  (c07ifidentiallt/).  Well,  I  don't  exactly  know; 
but  she  spoke  very  strangely  to  me  this  morning.  I'm 
afraid  she's  a  little  out  of  her  mind  sometimes. 

Burgess  {overwhelmed).  Why,  it  must  be  eatchin' ! 
Four  in  the  same  'ouse !  (He  goes  back  to  the  hearth, 
quite  lost  before  the  instability  of  the  human  intellect 
in  a  clergyman's  house.) 

Proserpine  {appearing  on  the  threshold).  What  is 
it,  Mr.  Morell? 

MoRELL.  Telegraph  to  the  Guild  of  St.  Matthew  that 
I  am  coming. 

Proserpine   (surprised).     Don't  they  expect  you? 

Morell  (peremptorily) .     Do  as  I  tell  you. 

(Proserpine  frightened,  sits  down  at  her  typewriter, 
and  obeys.  Morell  goes  across  to  Burgess,  Candida 
watching  his  movements  all  the  time  with  growing  won- 
der and  misgiving.) 

Morell.     Burgess:  you  don't  want  to  come? 

Burgess  (in  deprecation).  Oh,  don't  put  it  like  that, 
James.     It's  only  that  it  ain't  Sunday,  you  know. 

Morell.  I'm  sorry.  I  thought  you  might  like  to  be 
introduced  to  the  chairman.  He's  on  the  Works  Com- 
mittee of  the  County  Council  and  has  some  influence  in 
the  matter  of  contracts.  (Burgess  wakes  up  at  once. 
Morell,  expecting  as  much,  waits  a  moment,  and  says) 
Will  you  come? 

Burgess  (with  enthusiasm) .  Course  I'll  come,  James. 
Ain'  it  always  a  pleasure  to  'ear  you. 

Morell  (turning  from  him).  I  shall  want  you  to 
take  some  notes  at  the  meeting.  Miss  Garnett,  if  you 
have  no  other  engagement.  (She  nods,  afraid  to  speak.) 
You  are  coming,  Lexy,  I  suppose. 

Lexy.     Certainly. 

Candida.    We  are  all  coming,  James. 

Morell.  No  :  you  are  not  coming ;  and  Eugene  is  not 
coming.  You  will  stay  here  and  entertain  him — to  cele- 
brate your  return  home.      (Eugene  rises,  breathless.) 


Act  II                         Candida  137 

Candida.     But  James 


MoRELL  (authoritatively).  I  insist.  You  do  not  want 
to  come;  and  he  does  not  want  to  come.  (Candida  is 
about  to  protest.)  Oh,  don't  concern  yourselves:  I  shall 
have  plenty  of  people  without  you:  your  chairs  will  be 
wanted  by  unconverted  people  who  have  never  heard  me 
before. 

Candida  (troubled).  Eugene:  wouldn't  you  like  to 
come? 

MoRELL.  I  should  be  afraid  to  let  myself  go  before 
Eugene:  he  is  so  critical  of  sermons.  (Looking  at  him.) 
He  knows  I  am  afraid  of  him:  he  told  me  as  much  this 
morning.  Well,  I  shall  shew  him  how  much  afraid  I 
am  by  leaving  him  here  in  your  custody,  Candida. 

Marchbanks  (to  himself,  with  vivid  feeling).  That's 
brave.  That's  beautiful.  (He  sits  dorva  again  listening 
with  parted  lips.) 

Candida  (with  anxious  misgiving).  But — but —  Is 
anything  the  matter,  James.''  (Greatly  troubled.)  I 
can't  understand 

MoRELL.  Ah,  I  thought  it  was  I  who  couldn't  vmder- 
»tand,  dear.  (He  takes  her  tenderly  in  his  arms  and 
kisses  her  on  the  forehead;  then  looks  round  quietly  at 
Marchbanks.) 

end  op  act  ii. 


ACT    III 

Late  in  the  evening.  Past  ten.  The  curtains  are 
drawn,  and  the  lamps  lighted.  The  typewriter  is  in  its 
case;  the  large  table  has  been  cleared  and  tidied;  every- 
thing indicates  that  the  day's  rvork  is  done. 

Candida  and  Marchbanhs  are  seated  at  the  -fire.  The 
reading  lamp  is  on  the  mantelshelf  above  Marchbanhs, 
who  is  sitting  on  the  small  chair  reading  aloud  from  a 
manuscript.  A  little  pile  of  manuscripts  and  a  couple 
of  volumes  of  poetry  are  on  the  carpet  beside  him.  Can- 
dida is  in  the  easy  chair  with  the  poker,  a  light  brass 
one,  upright  in  her  hand.  She  is  leaning  bach  and  look- 
ing at  the  point  of  it  curiously,  with  her  feet  stretched 
towards  the  blaze  and  her  heels  resting  on  the  fender, 
profoundly  unconscious  of  her  appearance  and  surround- 
ings. 

Marchbanks  (breaking  off  in  his  recitation) .  Every 
poet  that  ever  lived  has  put  that  thought  into  a  sonnet. 
He  must:  he  can't  help  it.  (He  loohs  to  her  for  assent, 
and  notices  her  absorption  in  the  poher.)  Haven't  you 
been  listening?     (No  response.)     Mrs.  Morell! 

Candida  (starting).     Eh? 

Marchbanks.     Haven't  you  been  listening? 

Candida  (with  a  guilty  excess  of  politeness).  Oh, 
yes.  It's  very  nice.  Go  on,  Eugene.  I'm  longing  to 
hear  what  happens  to  the  angel. 

Marchbanks  (crushed — the  manuscript  dropping 
from  his  hand  to  the  floor).  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
boring  you. 

138 


Act  III  Candida  139 

Candida.  But  you  are  not  boring  me,  I  assure  you. 
Please  go  on.     Do,  Eugene. 

Marchbanks.  I  finished  the  poem  about  the  angel 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  I've  read  you  several  things 
since. 

Candida  {remorsefully).  I'm  so  sorry,  Eugene.  I 
think  the  poker  must  have  fascinated  me.  {She  puts  it 
down.) 

Marchbanks.     It  made  me  horrible  imeasy. 

Candida.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I'd  have  put  it 
down  at  once. 

Marchbanks.  I  was  afraid  of  making  you  uneasy,  too. 
It  looked  as  if  it  were  a  weapon.  If  I  were  a  hero  of 
old,  I  should  have  laid  my  drawn  sword  between  us.  If 
Morell  had  come  in  he  would  have  thought  you  had  taken 
up  the  poker  because  there  was  no  sword  between  us. 

Candida  {wondering).  What?  {With  a  puzzled 
glance  at  him.)  I  can't  quite  follow  that.  Those  son- 
nets of  yours  have  perfectly  addled  me.  Why  should 
there  be  a  sword  between  us  ? 

MATicuBAi^iKS  {evasively).  Oh,  never  mind.  {He  stoops 
to  pick  up  the  manuscript.) 

Candida.  Put  that  down  again,  Eugene.  There  are 
limits  to  my  appetite  for  poetry — even  your  poetry. 
You've  been  reading  to  me  for  more  than  two  hours — 
ever  since  James  went  out.     I  want  to  talk. 

Marchbanks  {rising,  scared).  No:  I  mustn't  talk. 
{He  looks  round  him  in  his  lost  way,  and  adds,  sud- 
denly) I  think  I'll  go  out  and  take  a  walk  in  the  park. 
{Making  for  the  door.) 

Candida.  Nonsense :  it's  shut  long  ago.  Come  and  sit 
down  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  talk  moonshine  as  you 
usually  do.     I  want  to  be  amused.     Don't  you  want  to? 

Marchbanks  {in  half  terror,  half  rapture).     Yes. 

Candida.  Then  come  along.  {She  moves  her  chair 
back  a  little  to  make  room.  He  hesitates;  then  timidly 
stretches  himself  on  the  hearth-rug,  face  upwards,  and 


140  Candida  Act  III 

throws  back  his  head  across  her  knees,  looking  up  at 
her.) 

Marchbanks.  Oh,  I've  been  so  miserable  all  the 
evening,  because  I  was  doing  right.  Now  I'm  doing 
wrong;  and  I'm  happy. 

Candida  (tenderly  amused  at  him).  Yes:  I'm  sure 
you  feel  a  great  grown  up  wicked  deceiver — quite  proud 
of  yourself,  aren't  you.'' 

Marchbanks  (raising  his  head  quickly  and  turning  a 
little  to  look  round  at  her).  Take  care.  I'm  ever  so 
much  older  than  you,  if  you  only  knew.  (He  turns  quite 
over  on  his  knees,  with  his  hands  clasped  and  his  arms  on 
her  lap,  and  speaks  with  growing  impulse,  his  blood  be- 
ginning to  stir.)     May  I  say  some  wicked  things  to  you? 

Candida  (without  the  least  fear  or  coldness,  quite 
nobly,  and  with  perfect  respect  for  his  passion,  but  with 
a  touch  of  her  wise-hearted  maternal  humor).  No. 
But  you  may  say  anything  you  really  and  truly  feel. 
Anything  at  all,  no  matter  what  it  is.  I  am  not  afraid, 
so  long  as  it  is  your  real  self  that  speaks,  and  not  a 
mere  attitude — a  gallant  attitude,  or  a  wicked  attitude, 
or  even  a  poetic  attitude.  I  put  you  on  your  honor  and 
truth.     Now  say  whatever  you  want  to. 

Marchbanks  (the  eager  expression  vanishing  utterly 
from  his  lips  and  nostrils  as  his  eyes  light  up  with 
pathetic  spirituality).  Oh,  now  I  can't  say  anything: 
all  the  words  I  know  belong  to  some  attitude  or  other — 
all  except  one. 

Candida.     What  one  is  that? 

Marchbanks  (softly,  losing  himself  in  the  music  of 
the  name).  Candida,  Candida,  Candida,  Candida,  Can- 
dida. I  must  say  that  now,  because  you  have  put  me  on 
my  honor  and  truth;  and  I  never  think  or  feel  Mrs. 
Morell:  it  is  always  Candida. 

Candida.  Of  course.  And  what  have  you  to  say  to 
Candida  ? 

Marchbanks.     Nothing,  but  to  repeat  your  name  a 


Act  III  Candida  141 

thousand  times.  Don't  you  feel  that  every  time  is  a 
prayer  to  you? 

Candida.  Doesn't  it  make  you  happy  to  be  able  to 
pray  ? 

Marchbanks.     Yes,  very  happy. 

Candida.  Well,  that  happiness  is  the  answer  to  your 
prayer.     Do  you  want  anything  more? 

Marchbanks  (in  beatitude).  No:  I  have  come  into 
heaven,  where  want  is  unknown. 

(Morell  comes  in.  He  halts  on  the  threshold,  and 
takes  in  the  scene  at  a  glance.) 

Morell  (grave  and  self-contained).  I  hope  I  don't 
disturb  you. 

(Candida  starts  up  violently,  but  without  the  smallest 
embarrassment,  laughing  at  herself.  Eugene,  still 
kneeling,  saves  himself  from  falling  by  putting  his 
hands  on  the  seat  of  the  chair,  and  remains  there,  star- 
ing open  mouthed  at  Morell.) 

Candida  (as  she  rises).  Oh,  James,  how  you  startled 
me !  I  was  so  taken  up  with  Eugene  that  I  didn't  hear 
your  latch-key.  How  did  the  meeting  go  off?  Did  you 
speak  well? 

Morell.     I  have  never  spoken  better  in  my  life. 

Candida.  That  was  first  rate !  How  much  was  the 
collection  ? 

Morell.     I  forgot  to  ask. 

Candida  (to  Eugene).  He  must  have  spoken  splen- 
didly, or  he  would  never  have  forgotten  that.  (To 
Morell.)      Where  are  all  the  others? 

Morell.  They  left  long  before  I  could  get  away:  I 
thought  I  should  never  escape.  I  believe  they  are  hav- 
ing supper  somewhere. 

Candida  (in  her  domestic  business  tone).  Oh;  in  that 
case,  Maria  may  go  to  bed.  I'll  tell  her.  (She  goes  out 
to  the  kitchen.) 

Morell  (looking  sternly  down  at  Marchbanks). 
WeU? 


142  Candida  Act  III 

Marchbanks  (squatting  cross-legged  on  the  hearth- 
rug, and  actually  at  ease  with  Morell — even  impishly 
humorous).     Well? 

Morell.     Have  you  anything  to  tell  me? 

Marchbanks.  Only  that  I  have  been  making  a  fool 
of  myself  here  in  private  whilst  you  have  been  making  a 
fool  of  yourself  in  public. 

Morell.     Hardly  in  the  same  way^  I  think. 

Marchbanks  (scrambling  up — eagerly).  The  very, 
very,  very  same  way.  I  have  been  playing  the  good 
man  just  like  you.  When  you  began  your  heroics  about 
leaving  me  here  with  Candida 

Morell  (involuntarily).     Candida? 

Marchbanks.  Oh,  yes:  I've  got  that  far.  Heroics 
are  infectious :  I  caught  the  disease  from  you.  I  swore 
not  to  say  a  word  in  your  absence  that  I  would  not  have 
said  a  month  ago  in  your  presence. 

Morell.     Did  you  keep  your  oath? 

Marchbanks  (suddenly  perching  himself  grotesquely 
on  the  easy  chair).  I  was  ass  enough  to  keep  it  until 
about  ten  minutes  ago.  Up  to  that  moment  I  went  on 
desperately  reading  to  her — reading  my  own  poems — 
anybody's  poems — to  stave  off  a  conversation.  I  was 
standing  outside  the  gate  of  Heaven,  and  refusing  to  go 
in.  Oh,  you  can't  think  how  heroic  it  was,  and  how  un- 
comfortable !     Then 

Morell  (steadily  controlling  his  suspense). 
Then.? 

Marchbanks  (prosaically  slipping  down  into  a  quite 
ordinary  attitude  in  the  chair).  Then  she  couldn't  bear 
being  read  to  any  longer. 

Morell.  And  you  approached  the  gate  of  Heaven  at 
last? 

Marchbanks.    Yes. 

Morell.  Well?  (Fiercely.)  Speak,  man:  have  you 
no  feeling  for  me? 

Marchbanks     (softly    and    musically).      Then    she 


Act  III  Candida  143 

became  an  angel;  and  there  was  a  flaming  sword  that 
turned  every  way,  so  that  I  couldn't  go  in;  for  I  saw 
that  that  gate  was  really  the  gate  of  Hell. 

MoRELL  (trimiiphantly).     She  repulsed  you! 

Marchbanks  {rising  in  wild  scorn).  No,  you  fool: 
if  she  had  done  that  I  should  never  have  seen  that  I  was 
in  Heaven  already.  Repulsed  me !  You  think  that 
would  have  saved  me — virtuous  indignation !  Oh,  you 
are  not  worthy  to  live  in  the  same  world  with  her.  {He 
turns  away  contemptuously  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.) 

MoRELL  {who  has  watched  him  quietly  without  chang- 
ing his  place).  Do  you  think  you  make  yourself  more 
worthy  by  reviling  me,  Eugene? 

Marchbanks.  Here  endeth  the  thousand  and  first 
lesson.  Morell:  I  don't  think  much  of  your  preaching 
after  all:  I  believe  I  could  do  it  better  myself.  The  man 
I  want  to  meet  is  the  man  that  Candida  married. 

Morell.     The  man  that — ?     Do  you  mean  me? 

Marchbanks.  I  don't  mean  the  Reverend  James 
Mavor  Morell,  moralist  and  windbag.  I  mean  the  real 
man  that  the  Reverend  James  must  have  hidden  some- 
where inside  his  black  coat — the  man  that  Candida 
loved.  You  can't  make  a  woman  like  Candida  love  you 
by  merely  buttoning  your  collar  at  the  back  instead  of 
in  front. 

Morell  {boldly  and  steadily).  When  Candida  prom- 
ised to  marry  me,  I  was  the  same  moralist  r.nd  windbag 
that  you  now  see.  I  wore  my  black  coat;  and  my  collar 
was  buttoned  behind  instead  of  in  front.  Do  you  think 
she  would  have  loved  me  any  the  better  for  being  in- 
sincere in  my  profession? 

Marchbanks  {on  the  sofa  hugging  his  ankles).  Oh, 
she  forgave  you,  just  as  she  forgives  me  for  being  a 
coward,  and  a  weakling,  and  what  you  call  a  snivelling 
little  whelp  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  {Dreamily.)  A 
woman  like  that  has  divine  insight:  she  loves  our  souls, 
and  not  our  follies  and  vanities  and  illusions,  or  our  col- 


144  Candida  Act  III 

lars  and  coats,  or  any  other  of  the  rags  and  tatters  we 
are  rolled  up  in.  {He  reflects  on  this  for  an  instant;  then 
turns  intently  to  question  Morell.)  What  I  want  to 
know  is  how  you  got  past  the  flaming  sword  that  stopped 
me. 

MoRELL  (meaningly).  Perhaps  because  I  was  not 
interrupted  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes. 

Marchbanks  {taken  aback).     What! 

MoRELL.  Man  can  climb  to  the  highest  summits;  but 
he  cannot  dwell  there  long, 

Marchbanks.  It's  false:  there  can  he  dwell  for  ever 
and  there  only.  It's  in  the  other  moments  that  he  can 
find  no  rest,  no  sense  of  the  silent  glory  of  life.  Where 
would  you  have  me  spend  my  moments,  if  not  on  the 
summits  } 

MoRELL.  In  the  scullery,  slicing  onions  and  filling 
lamps. 

Marchbanks.  Or  in  the  pulpit,  scrubbing  cheap 
earthenware  souls  ? 

Morell.  Yes,  that,  too.  It  was  there  that  I  earned 
my  golden  moment,  and  the  right,  in  that  moment,  to 
ask  her  to  love  me.  /  did  not  take  the  moment  on  credit ; 
nor  did  I  use  it  to  steal  another  man's  happiness. 

Marchbanks  (rather  disgustedly,  trotting  back  to- 
wards the  fireplace).  I  have  no  doubt  you  conducted 
the  transaction  as  honestly  as  if  you  were  buying  a  pound 
of  cheese.  (He  stops  on  the  brink  of  the  hearth-rug 
and  adds,  thoughtfully,  to  himself,  with  his  back  turned 
to  Morell)     I  could  only  go  to  her  as  a  beggar. 

Morell  (starting).  A  beggar  dying  of  cold — asking 
for  her  shawl? 

Marchbanks  (turning,  surprised).  Thank  you  for 
touching  up  my  poetry.  Yes,  if  you  like,  a  beggar  dying 
of  cold  asking  for  her  shawl. 

Morell  (excitedly).  And  she  refused.  Shall  I  tell 
you  why  she  refused?  I  can  tell  you,  on  her  own  au- 
thoritv.     It  was  because  of 


Act  III  Candida  145 

Marchbanks.     She  didn't  refuse. 

MORELL.      Not ! 

Marchbanks.  She  offered  me  all  I  chose  to  ask  for, 
her  shawl,  her  wings,  the  wreath  of  stars  on  her  head, 
the  lilies  in  her  hand,  the  crescent  moon  beneath  her 
feet 

Morell  (seizing  him).  Out  with  the  truth,  man:  my 
wife  is  my  wife:  I  want  no  more  of  your  poetic  frip- 
peries. I  know  well  that  if  I  have  lost  her  love  and  you 
have  gained  it,  no  law  will  bind  her. 

Marchbanks  {quaintly,  without  fear  or  resistance). 
Catch  me  by  the  shirt  collar,  Morell:  she  will  arrange 
it  for  me  afterwards  as  she  did  this  morning.  (With 
quiet  rapture.)     I  shall  feel  her  hands  touch  me. 

Morell.  You  young  imp,  do  you  know  how  danger- 
ous it  is  to  say  that  to  me.''  Or  (tvith  a  sudden  mis- 
giving) has  something  made  you  brave? 

Marchbanks.  I'm  not  afraid  now.  I  disliked  you 
before:  that  was  why  I  shrank  from  your  touch.  But  I 
saw  to-day — when  she  tortured  you — that  you  love  her. 
Since  then  I  have  been  your  friend:  you  may  strangle 
me  if  you  like. 

Morell  (releasing  him).  Eugene:  if  that  is  not  a 
heartless  lie — if  you  have  a  spark  of  human  feeling  left 
in  you — will  you  tell  mc  what  has  happened  during  my 
absence  ? 

Marchbanks.  WTiat  happened!  Why,  the  flaming 
sword —  (Morell  stamps  with  impatience.)  Well,  in 
plain  prose,  I  loved  her  so  exquisitely  that  I  wanted 
nothing  more  than  the  happiness  of  being  in  such  love. 
And  before  I  had  time  to  come  down  from  the  highest 
summits,  you  came  in. 

Morell  (suffering  deeply).  So  it  is  still  imsettled — • 
still  the  misery  of  doubt. 

Marchbanks.  ■Misery !  I  am  the  happiest  of  men. 
I  desire  nothing  now  but  her  happiness.  (With  dreamy 
enthusiasm.)     Oh,  Morell,  let  us  both  give  her  up.    Why 


146  Candida  Act  III 

should  she  have  to  choose  between  a  wretched  little 
nervous  disease  like  me,  and  a  pig-headed  parson  like 
you?  Let  us  go  on  a  pilgrimage,  you  to  the  east  and  I 
to  the  west,  in  search  of  a  worthy  lover  for  her — some 
beautiful  archangel  with  purple  wings 

MoRELL.  Some  fiddlestick.  Oh,  if  she  is  mad  enough 
to  leave  me  for  you,  who  will  protect  her?  Who  will 
help  her?  who  will  work  for  her?  who  will  be  a  father 
to  her  children?  {He  sits  down  distractedly  on  the  sofa, 
Tvith  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  propped  on 
his  clenched  fists.} 

Marchbanks  (snapping  his  fingers  wildly).  She  does 
not  ask  those  silly  questions.  It  is  she  who  wants  some- 
body to  protect,  to  help,  to  work  for — somebody  to  give 
her  children  to  protect,  to  help  and  to  work  for.  Some 
grown  up  man  who  has  become  as  a  little  child  again. 
Oh,  you  fool,  you  fool,  you  triple  fool!  I  am  the  man, 
Morell:  I  am  the  man.  (He  dances  about  excitedly,  cry- 
ing.) You  don't  understand  what  a  woman  is.  Send  for 
her,  Morell:  send  for  her  and  let  her  choose  between — 
(The  door  opens  and  Candida  enters.  He  stops  as  if 
petrified.) 

Candida  (amazed,  on  the  threshold) .  What  on  earth 
are  you  at,  Eugene? 

Marchbanks  (oddly).  James  and  I  are  having  a 
preaching  match;  and  he  is  getting  the  worst  of  it. 
(Candida  looks  quickly  round  at  Morell.  Seeing  that  he 
is  distressed,  she  hurries  down  to  him,  greatly  vexed, 
speaking  with  vigorous  reproach  to  Marchbanks.) 

Candida.  You  have  been  annoying  him.  Now  I  won't 
have  it,  Eugene:  do  you  hear?  (Putting  her  hand  on 
Morell's  shoidder,  and  quite  forgetting  her  wifely  tact 
in  her  annoyance.)  My  boy  shall  not  be  worried:  I  will 
protect  him. 

Morell   (rising  proudly).     Protect! 

Candida  (not  heeding  him — to  Eugene).  What  have 
you  been  saying? 


Act  in  Candida  147 

Marchbanks   (appalled).     Nothing — I 

Candida.     Eugene!     Nothing? 

Marchbanks  {piteously).  I  mean — I — I'm  very 
sorry.  I  won't  do  it  again:  indeed  I  won't.  I'll  let  him 
alone. 

MoRELL  (indignantly,  with  an  aggressive  movement 
towards  Eugene).     Let  me  alone!     You  young 

Candida  (stopping  him).  Sh — no,  let  me  deal  with 
him,  James. 

Marchbanks.   Oh,  you're  not  angry  with  me,  are  you? 

Candida  (severely).  Yes,  I  am — very  angry.  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  pack  you  out  of  the  house. 

MoRELL  (taken  aback  by  Candida's  vigor,  and  by  no 
means  relishing  the  sense  of  being  rescued  by  her  from 
another  man).  Gently,  Candida,  gently.  I  am  able  to 
take  care  of  myself. 

Candida  (petting  him).  Yes,  dear:  of  course  you  are. 
But  you  mustn't  be  annoyed  and  made  miserable. 

Marchbanks  (almost  in  tears,  turning  to  the  door). 
I'll  go. 

Candida.  Oh,  you  needn't  go:  I  can't  turn  you  out  at 
this  time  of  night.  (Vehemently.)  Shame  on  you!  For 
shame ! 

Marchbanks  (desperately).     But  what  have  I  done? 

Candida.  I  know  what  you  have  done — as  well  as  if 
I  had  been  here  all  the  time.  Oh,  it  was  unworthy ! 
You  are  like  a  child:  you  cannot  hold  your  tongue. 

Marchbanks.  I  would  die  ten  times  over  sooner  than 
give  you  a  moment's  pain. 

Candida  (with  infinite  contempt  for  this  puerility). 
Much  good  your  dying  would  do  me ! 

MoRELL.  Candida,  my  dear:  this  altercation  is  hardly 
quite  seemingly.  It  is  a  matter  between  two  men;  and 
I  am  the  right  person  to  settle  it. 

Candida.  Two  men  !  Do  you  call  that  a  man?  (To 
Eugene.)     You  bad  boy! 

Marchbanks    (gathering   a   whimsically    affectionate 


148  Candida  Act  III 

courage  from  the  scolding).  If  I  am  to  be  scolded  like 
this,  I  must  make  a  boy's  excuse.  He  began  it.  And 
he's  bigger  than  I  am. 

Candida  (losijig  confidence  a  little  as  her  concern  for 
Morell's  dignity  takes  the  alarm).  That  can't  be  true. 
{To  Morell.)     You  didn't  begin  it,  James,  did  you? 

MoRELL   (contemptuously).     No. 

Marchbanks   (indignant).     Oh! 

MoRELL  (to  Eugene).  You  began  it — this  morning. 
(Candida,  instantly  connecting  this  rvith  his  mysterious 
allusion  in  the  afternoon  to  something  told  him  by  Eu- 
gene in  the  morning,  looks  quickly  at  him,  rvrestling 
with  the  enigma.  Morell  proceeds  rvith  the  emphasis 
of  offended  superiority.)  But  your  other  point  is  true. 
I  am  certainly  the  bigger  of  the  two,  and,  I  hope,  the 
stronger,  Candida.  So  you  had  better  leave  the  matter 
in  my  hands. 

Candida  (again  soothing  him).  Yes,  dear;  but — 
(Troubled.)      I  don't  understand  about  this  morning. 

MoRELL  (gently  snubbing  her).  You  need  not  under- 
stand, my  dear. 

Candida.  But,  James,  I —  (The  street  bell  rings.) 
Oh,  bother !  Here  they  all  come.  (She  goes  out  to  let 
them  in.) 

Marchbanks  (running  to  Morell).  Oh,  Morell,  isn't 
it  dreadful?  She's  angry  with  us:  she  hates  me.  What 
shall  I  do? 

Morell  (with  quaint  desperation,  clutching  himself 
by  the  hair).  Eugene:  my  head  is  spinning  round.  I 
shall  begin  to  laugh  presently.  (He  walks  up  and  down 
the  middle  of  the  room.) 

Marchbanks  (following  him  anxiously).  No,  no: 
she'll  think  I've  thrown  you  into  hysterics.     Don't  laugh. 

(Boisterous  voices  and  laughter  are  heard  approach- 
ing. Lexy  Mill,  his  eyes  sparkling,  and  his  bearing  de- 
noting unwonted  elevation  of  spirit,  enters  with  Burgess, 
who  is  greasy  and  self-complacent,  but  has  all  his  wits 


Act  m  Candida  149 

about  him.  Miss  Garnett,  with  her  smartest  hat  and 
jacket  on,  follows  them;  hut  though  her  eyes  are  brighter 
than  before,  she  is  evidently  a  -prey  to  misgiving.  She 
places  herself  with  her  back  to  her  typewriting  table, 
with  one  hand  on  it  to  rest  herself,  passes  the  other 
across  her  forehead  as  if  she  were  a  little  tired  and 
giddy.  Marchbanks  relapses  into  shyness  and  edges 
away  into  the  corner  near  the  window,  where  Morell's 
books  are.) 

Mill  (exhilaratedly).  Morell:  I  must  congratulate 
you.  (Grasping  his  hand.)  What  a  noble,  splendid,  in- 
spired address  you  gave  us !     You  surpassed  yourself. 

Burgess.  So  you  did,  James.  It  fair  kep'  me  awake 
to  the  last  word.     Didn't  it.  Miss  Gornett.^ 

Proserpine  (worriedly).  Oh,  I  wasn't  minding  you: 
I  was  trying  to  make  notes.  (She  takes  out  her  note- 
book, and  looks  at  her  stenography,  which  nearly  makes 
her  cry.) 

Morell.     Did  I  go  too  fast,  Pross? 

Proserpine.  Much  too  fast.  You  know  I  can't  do 
more  than  a  hundred  words  a  minute.  (She  relieves  her 
feelings  by  throroing  her  note-book  angrily  beside  her 
machine,  ready  for  use  next  morning.) 

Morell  (soothingly).  Oh,  well,  well,  never  mind, 
never  mind,  never  mind.     Have  you  all  had  supper.? 

Lexy.  Mr.  Burgess  has  been  kind  enough  to  give  us 
a  really  splendid  supper  at  the  Belgrave, 

Burgess  (with  effusive  magnanimity).  Don't  mention 
it,  Mr.  Mill.  (Modestly.)  You're  'arty  welcome  to  my 
little  treat. 

Proserpine.  We  had  champagne!  I  never  tasted  it 
before.     I  feel  quite  giddy. 

Morell  (stirprised).  A  champagne  supper!  That 
was  very  handsome.  Was  it  my  eloquence  that  pro- 
duced all  this  extravagance.'' 

Mill  (rhetorically).  Your  eloquence,  and  Mr.  Bur- 
gess's goodness  of  heart.      (With  a  fresh  burst  of  ex- 


150  Candida  Act  HI 

hilaration.)     And  what  a  very  fine  fellow  the  chairman 
is,  Morell !     He  came  to  supper  with  us. 

MoRELL  (with  long  drawn  significance,  looJcing  at 
Burgess).     O-o-o-h,  the  chairman.     Now  I  understand. 

(Burgess,  covering  a  lively  satisfaction  in  his  diplo- 
matic cunning  with  a  deprecatory  cough,  retires  to  the 
hearth.  Lexy  folds  his  arms  and  leans  against  the  cel- 
laret in  a  high-spirited  attitude.  Candida  comes  in  with 
glasses,  lemons,  and  a  jug  of  hot  water  on  a  tray.} 

Candida.  Who  will  have  some  lemonade?  You  know 
our  rules:  total  abstinence.  (She  puts  the  tray  on  the 
table,  and  takes  up  the  lemon  squeezers,  looking  enquir- 
ingly round  at  them.) 

MoRELL.  No  use,  dear.  They've  all  had  champagne. 
Pross  has  broken  her  pledge. 

Candida  (to  Proserpine).  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you've  been  drinking  champagne ! 

Proserpine  (stubbornly).  Yes,  I  do.  I'm  only  a  beer 
teetotaller,  not  a  champagne  teetotaller.  I  don't  like 
beer.  Are  there  any  letters  for  me  to  answer,  Mr. 
Morell  ? 

MoRELL.     No  more  to-night. 

Proserpine.     Very  well.     Good-night,  everybody. 

Lexy  (gallantly).  Had  I  not  better  see  you  home. 
Miss  Garnett? 

Proserpine.  No,  thank  you.  I  shan't  trust  myself 
with  anybody  to-night.  I  wish  I  hadn't  taken  any  of 
that  stuff.     (She  walks  straight  out.) 

Burgess  (indignantly).  Stuff,  indeed!  That  gurl 
dunno  wot  champagne  is !  Pommery  and  Greeno  at 
twelve  and  six  a  bottle.  She  took  two  glasses  a'most 
straight  hoff. 

MoRELL  (a  little  anxious  about  her).  Go  and  look 
after  her,  Lexy. 

Lexy  (alarmed).  But  if  she  should  really  be —  Sup- 
pose she  began  to  sing  in  the  street,  or  anything  of  that 
sort. 


Act  m  Candida  151 

MoRELL.  Just  so:  she  may.  That's  why  you'd  better 
see  her  safely  home. 

Candida.  Do,  Lexy:  there's  a  good  fellow.  (She 
shakes  his  hand  and  pushes  him  gently  to  the  door.) 

Lexy.  It's  evidently  my  duty  to  go.  I  hope  it  may 
not  be  necessary.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Morell.  (To  the 
rest.)    Good-night.    (He  goes.    Candida  shuts  the  door.) 

Burgess.  He  was  gushin'  with  hextra  piety  hisself 
arter  two  sips.  People  carn't  drink  like  they  huseter. 
(Dis7J2issing  the  subject  nd  bustling  away  from  the 
hearth.)  Well,  James:  it's  time  to  lock  up.  Mr.  Morch- 
banks:  shall  I  'ave  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for  a 
bit  of  the  way  home.'' 

Marchbanks  (affrightedly).  Yes:  I'd  better  go. 
(He  hurries  across  to  the  door;  but  Candida  places  her- 
self before  it,  barring  his  rvay.) 

Candida  (with  quiet  authority).  You  sit  down. 
You're  not  going  yet. 

Marchbanks  (quailing).  No:  I — I  didn't  mean  to. 
(He  comes  back  into  the  room  and  sits  down  abjectly 
on  the  sofa.) 

Candida.  Mr.  Marchbanks  will  stay  the  night  with 
us,  papa. 

Burgess.  Oh,  well,  I'll  say  good-night.  So  long, 
James.  (He  shakes  hands  with  Morell  and  goes  on  to 
Eugene.)  Make  'em  give  you  a  night  light  by  your  bed, 
Mr.  Morchbanks:  it'll  comfort  you  if  you  wake  up  in 
the  night  with  a  touch  of  that  complaint  of  yores.  Good- 
night. 

Marchbanks.  Thank  you:  I  will.  Good-night,  Mr. 
Burgess.  (They  shake  hands  and  Burgess  goes  to  the 
door.) 

Candida  (intercepting  Morell,  who  is  following  Bur- 
gess). Stay  here,  dear:  I'll  put  on  papa's  coat  for  him. 
(She  goes  out  with  Burgess.) 

Marchbanks.  Morell:  there's  going  to  be  a  terrible 
scene.    Aren't  you  afraid .'' 


152  Candida  Act  III 

MoRELL.     Not  in  the  least. 

Marchbanks.  I  never  envied  you  your  courage 
before.  {He  rises  timidly  and  puts  his  hand  appeal- 
ingly  on  Morell's  forearm.)     Stand  by  me,  won't  you? 

MoRELL  {casting  him,  off  gently,  but  resolutely). 
Each  for  himself,  Eugene.  She  must  choose  between  us 
now.  {He  goes  to  the  other  side  of  the  room  as  Candida 
returns.  Eugene  sits  down  again  on  the  sofa  like  a 
guilty  schoolboy  on  his  best   behaviour.) 

Candida  {between  them,  addressing  Eugene).  Are 
you  sorry.'* 

Marchbanks    {earnestly).     Yes,  heartbroken. 

Candida.  Well,  then,  you  are  forgiven.  Now  go  off 
to  bed  like  a  good  little  boy:  I  want  to  talk  to  James 
about  you. 

Marchbanks  {rising  in  great  consternation).  Oh,  I 
can't  do  that,  Morell.  I  must  be  here.  I'll  not  go  away. 
Tell  her. 

Candida  {with  quick  suspicion).  Tell  me  what?  {His 
eyes  avoid  hers  furtively.  She  turns  and  mutely  trans- 
fers the  question  to  Morell.) 

MoRELL  {bracing  himself  for  the  catastrophe).  I 
have  nothing  to  tell  her,  except  {here  his  voice  deepens 
to  a  measured  and  mournful  tenderness)  that  she  is  my 
greatest  treasure  on  earth — if  she  is  really  mine. 

Candida  {coldly,  offended  by  his  yielding  to  his  ora- 
tor's instinct  and  treating  her  as  if  she  were  the  audi- 
ence at  the  Guild  of  St.  Matthew).  I  am  sure  Eugene 
can  say  no  less,  if  that  is  all. 

Marchbanks  {discouraged).  Morell:  she's  laughing 
at  us. 

Morell  {with  a  quick  touch  of  temper).  There  is 
nothing  to  laugh  at.     Are  you  laughing  at  us,  Candida? 

Candida  {with  quiet  anger).  Eugene  is  very  quick- 
witted, James.  I  hope  I  am  going  to  laugh ;  but  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  am  not  going  to  be  very  angry.  {She 
goes  to  the  fireplace,  and  stands  there  leaning  with  her 


Act  in  Candida  153 

arm  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  her  foot  on  the  fender, 
whilst  Eugene  steals  to  Morell  and  plucks  him  by  the 
sleeve.) 

Marchbanks  (whispering).  Stop,  Morell.  Don't 
let  us  say  anything. 

Morell  (pushing  Eugene  away  without  deigning  to 
look  at  him).  I  hope  you  don't  mean  that  as  a  threat, 
Candida. 

Candida  (with  emphatic  warning).  Take  care,  James. 
Eugene:  I  asked  you  to  go.     Are  you  going? 

Morell  (putting  his  foot  down).  He  shall  not  go. 
I  wish  him  to  remain. 

Marchbanks.  I'll  go.  I'll  do  whatever  you  want. 
(He  turns  to  the  door.) 

Candida,  Stop!  (He  obeys.)  Didn't  you  hear  James 
say  he  wished  you  to  stay .?  James  is  master  here.  Don't 
you  know  that? 

Marchbanks  (flushing  with  a  young  poet's  rage 
against  tyranny).     By  what  right  is  he  master? 

Candida  (quietly).     Tell  him,  James. 

Morell  (taken  aback).  My  dear:  I  don't  know  of 
any  right  that  makes  me  master.     I  assert  no  such  right. 

Candida  (with  infinite  reproach).  You  don't  know! 
Oh,  James,  James!  (To  Eugene,  musingly.)  I  wonder 
do  you  understand,  Eugene!  No:  you're  too  young. 
Well,  I  give  you  leave  to  stay — to  stay  and  learn.  (She 
comes  away  from  the  hearth  and  places  herself  between 
them.)     Now,  James :  what's  the  matter ?     Come:  tell  me. 

Marchbanks  (whispering  tremulously  across  to  him). 
Don't. 

Candida.     Come.     Out  with  it! 

Morell  (slowly).  I  meant  to  prepare  your  mind 
carefully,  Candida,  so  as  to  prevent  misunderstanding. 

Candida.  Yes,  dear:  I  am  sure  you  did.  But  never 
mind:  I  shan't  misunderstand. 

Morell.  Well — er —  (He  hesitates,  unable  to  find 
the  long  explanation  which  he  supposed  to  be  available.) 


154  Candida  Act  m 

Candida.    Well  ? 

MoRELL  (baldly).  Eugene  declares  that  you  are  in 
love  with  him. 

Marchbanks  (frantically).  No,  no,  no,  no,  never. 
I  did  not,  Mrs.  Morell:  it's  not  true.  I  said  I  loved  you, 
and  that  he  didn't.  I  said  that  I  understood  you,  and 
that  he  couldn't.  And  it  was  not  after  what  passed  there 
before  the  fire  that  I  spoke :  it  was  not,  on  my  "n^ord.  It 
was  this  morning. 

Candida   (enlightened).     This  morning! 

Marchbanks.  Yes.  (He  looks  at  her,  pleading  for 
credence,  and  then  adds,  simply)  That  was  what  was 
the  matter  with  my  collar. 

Candida  (after  a  pause;  for  she  does  not  take  in  his 
meaning  at  once).  His  collar!  (She  turns  to  Morell, 
shocked.)     Oh,  James:  did  you — (she  stops)? 

MoRELL  (ashamed).  You  know,  Candida,  that  I  have 
a  temper  to  struggle  with.  And  he  said  (shuddering) 
that  you  despised  me  in  your  heart. 

Candida  (turning  quickly  on  Eugene).  Did  you  say 
that.? 

Marchbanks  (terrified).     No! 

Candida  (severely).  Then  James  has  just  told  me  a 
falsehood.     Is  that  what  you  mean? 

Marchbanks.  No,  no:  I — I —  (blurting  out  the  ew 
planation  desperately)  — it  was  David's  wife.  And  it 
wasn't  at  home :  it  was  when  she  saw  him  dancing  before 
all  the  people. 

MoRELL  (taking  the  cue  with  a  debater's  adroitness). 
Dancing  before  all  the  people,  Candida ;  and  thinking  he 
was  moving  their  hearts  by  his  mission  when  they  were 
only  suffering  from — Prossy's  complaint.  (She  is  about 
to  protest:  he  raises  his  hand  to  silence  her,  exclaiming) 
Don't  try  to  look  indignant,  Candida: — 

Candida  (interjecting).     Try! 

MoRELL  (continuing).  Eugene  was  right.  As  you 
told  me  a  few  hours  after,  he  is  always  right.     He  said 


Act  in  Candida  155 

nothing  that  you  did  not  say  far  better  yourself.  He  is 
the  poet,  who  sees  everything ;  and  I  am  the  poor  parson, 
who  understands  nothing. 

Candida  (remorsefully).  Do  you  mind  what  is  said 
by  a  foolish  boy,  because  I  said  something  like  it  again 
in  jest? 

MoRELL.  That  foolish  boy  can  speak  with  the  in- 
spiration of  a  child  and  the  cunning  of  a  serpent.  He 
has  claimed  that  you  belong  to  him  and  not  to  me;  and, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  I  have  come  to  fear  that  it  may  be 
true.  I  will  not  go  about  tortured  with  doubts  and  sus- 
picions. I  will  not  live  with  you  and  keep  a  secret  from 
you.  I  will  not  suffer  the  intolerable  degradation  of 
jealousy.  We  have  agreed — he  and  I — that  you  shall 
choose  between  us  now.     I  await  your  decision. 

Candida  {slowly  recoiling  a  step,  her  heart  hardened 
by  his  rhetoric  in  spite  of  the  sincere  feeling  behind  it). 
Oh !  I  am  to  clioose,  am  I  ?  I  suppose  it  is  quite  settled 
that  I  must  belong  to  one  or  the  other. 

MoRELL  (firmly).    Quite.    You  must  choose  definitely. 

Marchbanks  (anxiously).  Morell:  you  don't  under- 
stand.    She  means  that  she  belongs  to  herself. 

Candida  (turning  on  him).  I  mean  that  and  a  good 
deal  more.  Master  Eugene,  as  you  will  both  find  out 
presently.  And  pray,  my  lords  and  masters,  what  have 
you  to  offer  for  my  choice?  I  am  up  for  auction,  it 
seems.     What  do  you  bid,  James? 

Morell  (reproachfully).  Cand —  (He  breaks  down: 
his  eyes  and  throat  fill  with  tears:  the  orator  becomes 
the  wounded  animal.)     I  can't  speak 

Candida  (impulsively  going  to  him).  Ah,  dearest 

Marchbanks  (in  wild  alarm).  Stop:  it's  not  fair. 
You  mustn't  show  her  that  you  suffer,  Morell.  I  am  on 
the  rack,  too;  but  I  am  not  crying. 

Morell  (rallying  all  his  forces).  Yes:  you  are  right. 
It  is  not  for  pity  that  I  am  bidding.  (He  disengages 
himself  from  Candida.) 


156  Candida  Act  in 

Candida  (retreating,  chilled).  I  beg  your  pardon, 
James;  I  did  not  mean  to  touch  you.  I  am  waiting  to 
hear  your  bid. 

MoRELL  (with  proud  humility).  I  have  nothing  to 
offer  you  but  my  strength  for  your  defence,  my  honesty 
of  purpose  for  your  surety,  my  ability  and  industry  for 
your  livelihood,  and  my  authority  and  position  for  your 
dignity.  That  is  all  it  becomes  a  man  to  offer  to  a 
woman. 

Candida  (quite  quietly).  And  you,  Eugene.^  What 
do  you  offer  .-^ 

Marchbanks.  My  weakness!  my  desolation!  my 
heart's  need ! 

Candida  (impressed).  That's  a  good  bid,  Eugene. 
Now  I  know  how  to  make  my  choice. 

She  pauses  and  looks  curiously  from  one  to  the  other, 
as  if  weighing  them.  Morell,  whose  lofty  confidence 
has  changed  into  heartbreaking  dread  at  Eugene's  hid, 
loses  all  power  of  concealing  his  anxiety.  Eugene, 
strung  to  the  highest  tension,  does  not  move  a  muscle. 

MoRELL  (in  a  suffocated  voice — the  appeal  bursting 
from  the  depths  of  his  anguish).     Candida! 

Marchbanks  (aside,  in  a  flash  of  contempt).  Coward! 

Candida  (significantly) .  I  give  myself  to  the  weaker 
of  the  two. 

Eugene  divines  her  meaning  at  once:  his  face  whitens 
like  steel  in  a  furnace  that  cannot  melt  it. 

Morell  (bowing  his  head  with  the  calm  of  collapse). 
I  accept  your  sentence,  Candida. 

Candida.     Do  you  understand,  Eugene? 

Marchbanks.  Oh,  I  feel  I'm  lost.  He  cannot  bear 
the  burden. 

Morell  (incredulously,  raising  his  head  with  prosaic 
abruptness).     Do  you  mean  me,  Candida? 

Candida  (smiling  a  little).  Let  us  sit  and  talk  comfort- 
ably over  it  like  three  friends.  (To  Morell.)  Sit  down, 
^ear.      (Morell   takes   the   chair  from   the  fireside — the 


Act  in  Candida  157 

children's  chair.)  Bring  me  that  chair,  Eugene.  (She 
indicates  the  easy  chair.  He  fetches  it  silently,  even  with 
something  like  cold  strength,  and  places  it  next  Morell,  a 
tittle  behind  him.  She  sits  down.  He  goes  to  the  sofa 
and  sits  there,  still  silent  and  inscrutable.  When  they 
are  all  settled  she  begins,  throwing  a  spell  of  quietness 
on  them  by  her  calm,  sane,  tender  tone.)  You  remember 
what  you  told  me  about  yourself,  Eugene:  how  nobody 
has  cared  for  you  since  your  old  nurse  died:  how  those 
clever,  fashionable  sisters  and  successful  brothers  of 
yours  were  your  mother's  and  father's  pets :  how  miser- 
able you  were  at  Eton:  how  your  father  is  trying  to 
starve  you  into  returning  to  Oxford:  how  you  have  had 
to  live  without  comfort  or  welcome  or  refuge,  always 
lonely,  and  nearly  always  disliked  and  misunderstood, 
poor  boy ! 

Marchbanks  {faithful  to  the  nobility  of  his  lot).  I 
had  my  books.     I  had  Nature.     And  at  last  I  met  you. 

Candida.  Never  mind  that  just  at  present.  Now  I 
■want  you  to  look  at  this  other  boy  here — my  boy — 
spoiled  from  his  cradle.  We  go  once  a  fortnight  to  see 
his  parents.  You  should  come  with  us,  Eugene,  and  see 
the  pictures  of  the  hero  of  that  household.  James  as  a 
baby !  the  most  wonderful  of  all  babies.  James  holding 
his  first  school  prize,  won  at  the  ripe  age  of  eight! 
James  as  the  captain  of  his  eleven !  James  in  his  first 
frock  coat !  James  under  all  sorts  of  glorious  circum- 
stances!  You  know  how  strong  he  is  (I  hope  he  didn't 
hurt  you) — how  clever  he  is — how  happy!  (With  deep- 
ening gravity.)  Ask  James's  mother  and  his  three  sis- 
ters what  it  cost  to  save  James  the  trouble  of  doing  any- 
thing but  be  strong  and  clever  and  happy.  Ask  me 
what  it  costs  to  be  James's  mother  and  three  sisters  and 
wife  and  mother  to  his  children  all  in  one.  Ask  Prossy 
and  Maria  how  troublesome  the  house  is  even  when  we 
have  no  visitors  to  help  us  to  slice  the  onions.  Ask  the 
tradesmen  who  want  to  worry  James  and  spoil  his  beau- 


158  Candida  Act  m 

tiful  sermons  who  it  is  that  puts  them  off.  When  there 
is  money  to  give,  he  gives  it:  when  there  is  money  to 
refuse,  I  refuse  it.  I  build  a  castle  of  comfort  and  in- 
dulgence and  love  for  him,  and  stand  sentinel  always  to 
keep  little  vulgar  cares  out.  I  make  him  master  here, 
though  he  does  not  know  it,  and  could  not  tell  you  a 
moment  ago  how  it  came  to  be  so.  (With  sweet  irony.) 
And  when  he  thought  I  might  go  away  with  you,  his 
only  anxiety  was  what  should  become  of  me!  And  to 
tempt  me  to  stay  he  offered  me  (leaning  forward  to  stroke 
his  hair  caressingly  at  each  phrase)  his  strength  for  my 
defence,  his  industry  for  my  livelihood,  his  position  for 
my  dignity,  his —  (Relenting.)  Ah,  I  am  mixing  up 
your  beautiful  sentences  and  spoiling  them,  am  I  not, 
darling?     (She  lays  her  cheek  fondly  against  his.) 

MoRELL  (quite  overcome,  kneeling  beside  her  chair 
and  embracing  her  with  boyish  ingenuousness) .  It's  all 
true,  every  word.  What  I  am  you  have  made  me  with 
the  labor  of  your  hands  and  the  love  of  your  heart !  You 
are  my  wife,  my  mother,  my  sisters:  you  are  the  sum 
of  all  loving  care  to  me. 

Candida  (in  his  arms,  smiling,  to  Eugene).  Am  I 
your  mother  and  sisters  to  you,  Eugene.'' 

Marchbanks  (rising  with  a  fierce  gesture  of  disgust). 
Ah,  never.     Out,  then,  into  the  night  with  me ! 

Candida  (rising  quickly  and  intercepting  him).  You 
are  not  going  like  that,  Eugene? 

Marchbanks  (with  the  ring  of  a  man's  voice — no 
longer  a  boy's — in  the  words).  I  know  the  hour  when 
it  strikes.     I  am  impatient  to  do  what  must  be  done. 

MoRELL  (rising  from  his  knee,  alarmed),  Candida: 
don't  let  him  do  anything  rash. 

Candida  (confident,  smiling  at  Eugene).  Oh,  there 
is  no  fear.     He  has  learnt  to  live  without  happiness. 

Marchbanks.  I  no  longer  desire  happiness:  life  is 
nobler  than  that.  Parson  James:  I  give  you  my  hap- 
piness with  both  hands:   I  love  you  because  you  have 


Act  m  Candida  159 

filled  the  heart  of  the  woman  I  loved.  Good-bye.  {He 
goes  towards  the  door.) 

Candida.  One  last  word.  (He  stops,  but  without 
turning  to  her.)     How  old  are  you,  Eugene.'' 

Marchbanks.  As  old  as  the  world  now.  This  morn- 
ing I  was  eighteen. 

Candida  (going  to  him,  and  standing  behind  him  with 
one  hand  caressingly  on  his  shoulder).  Eighteen!  Will 
you,  for  my  sake,  make  a  little  poem  out  of  the  two  sen- 
tences I  am  going  to  say  to  you  ?  And  will  you  promise 
to  repeat  it  to  yourself  whenever  you  think  of  me? 

Marchbanks  (without  moving).     Say  the  sentences. 

Candida.  When  I  am  thirty,  she  will  be  forty-five. 
When  I  am  sixty,  she  will  be  seventy-five. 

Marchbanks  (turning  to  her).  In  a  hundred  years, 
we  shall  be  the  same  age.  But  I  have  a  better  secret  than 
that  in  my  heart.  Let  me  go  now.  The  night  outside 
grows  impatient. 

Candida.  Good-bye.  (She  takes  his  face  in  her 
hands;  and  as  he  divines  her  intention  and  bends  his 
knee,  she  kisses  his  forehead.  Then  he  flies  out  into 
the  night.  She  turns  to  Morell,  holding  out  her  arms  to 
him.)  Ah,  James!  (They  embrace.  But  they  do  not 
know  the  secret  in  the  poet's  heart.) 

CURTAIN. 


THE  MAN   OF  DESTINY 


THE    MAN    OF    DESTINY 

The  twelfth  of  May,  1796,  in  north  Italy,  at  Tavaz- 
zano,  on  the  road  from  Lodi  to  Milan.  The  afternoon 
sun  is  blazing  serenely  over  the  plains  of  Lomhardy, 
treating  the  Alps  with  respect  and  the  anthills  with  in- 
dulgence, not  incommoded  by  the  basking  of  the  swine 
and  oxen  in  the  villages  nor  hurt  by  its  cool  reception 
in  the  churches,  but  fiercely  disdainful  of  two  hordes 
of  mischievous  insects  which  are  the  French  and  Austrian 
armies.  Two  days  before,  at  Lodi,  the  Austrians  tried 
to  prevent  the  French  from  crossing  the  river  by  the 
narrow  bridge  there;  but  the  French,  commanded  by  a 
general  aged  27,  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  who  does  not  un- 
derstand the  art  of  war,  rushed  the  fireswept  bridge, 
supported  by  a  tremendous  cannonade  in  which  the  young 
general  assisted  with  his  own  hands.  Cannonading  is 
his  technical  specialty;  he  has  been  trained  in  the  ar- 
tillery under  the  old  regime,  and  made  perfect  in  the 
military  arts  of  shirking  his  duties,  swindling  the  pay- 
master over  travelling  expenses,  and  dignifying  war  with 
the  noise  and  smoke  of  cannon,  as  depicted  in  all  mili- 
tary portraits.  He  is,  however,  an  original  observer, 
and  has  perceived,  for  the  first  time  since  the  invention 
of  gunpowder,  that  a  cannon  ball,  if  it  strikes  a  man, 
will  kill  him.  To  a  thorough  grasp  of  this  remarkable 
discovery,  he  adds  a  highly  evolved  faculty  for  physical 
geography  and  for  the  calculation  of  times  and  dis-^ 
tances.  He  has  prodigious  powers  of  work,  and  a  clear, 
realistic  knowledge  of  human  nature  in  public  affairs, 

163 


1G4  The  Man  of  Destiny 

having  seen  it  exhaustively  tested  in  that  department 
during  the  French  Revolution.  He  is  imaginative  with- 
out illusions,  and  creative  without  religion,  loyalty,  pa- 
triotism or  anij  of  the  common  ideals.  Not  that  he  i^ 
incapable  of  these  ideals:  on  the  contrary,  he  has  stval- 
lowed  them  all  in  his  boyhood,  and  now,  having  a  keen 
dramatic  faculty,  is  extremely  clever  at  playing  upon 
them  by  the  arts  of  the  actor  and  stage  manager.  With- 
al, he  is  no  spoiled  child.  Poverty,  ill-luck,  the  shifts 
of  impecunious  shabby-gentility ,  repeated  failure  as  a 
rvoidd-be  author,  humiliation  as  a  rebuffed  time  server, 
reproof  and  punishment  as  an  incompetent  and  dishonest 
officer,  an  escape  from  dismissal  from  the  service  so  nar- 
row that  if  the  emigration  of  the  nobles  had  not  raised 
the  value  of  even  the  most  rascally  lieutenant  to  the 
famine  price  of  a  general  he  woidd  have  been  swept 
contemptuously  from  the  army:  these  trials  have  ground 
the  conceit  out  of  him,  and  forced  him  to  be  self-siiffi- 
cient  and  to  understand  that  to  such  men  as  he  is  the 
world  will  give  nothing  that  he  cannot  take  from  it  by 
force.  In  this  the  world  is  not  free  from  cowardice  and 
folly;  for  Napoleon,  as  a  merciless  cannonader  of  po- 
litical rubbish,  is  making  himself  useful:  indeed,  it  is 
even  now  impossible  to  live  in  England  without  some- 
times feeling  how  much  that  country  lost  in  not  being 
conquered  by  him  as  well  as  by  Julius  Ccesar. 

However,  on  this  May  afternoon  in  1796,  it  is  early 
days  with  him.  He  is  only  26,  and  has  but  recently  be- 
come a  general,  partly  by  using  his  wife  to  seduce  the 
Directory  (then  governing  France)  partly  by  the  scarcity 
of  officers  caused  by  the  emigration  as  aforesaid;  partly 
by  his  faculty  of  knowing  a  country,  with  all  its  roads, 
rivers,  hills  and  valleys,  as  he  knows  the  palm  of  his 
hand;  and  largely  by  that  new  faith  of  his  in  the  efficacy 
of  firing  cannons  at  people.  His  army  is,  as  to  dis- 
cipline, in  a  state  which  has  so  greatly  shocked  some  mod- 
ern writers  before  whom  the  following  story  has  been 


The  Man  of  Destiny  165 

enacted,  that  they,  impressed  with  the  later  glory  of 
"  L'Empereur,"  have  altogether  refused  to  credit  it. 
But  Napoleon  is  not  "L'Empereur"  yet:  he  has  only 
just  been  dubbed  "  Le  Petit  Caporal,"  and  is  in  the 
stage  of  gaining  influence  over  his  men  by  displays  of 
pluck.  He  is  not  in  a  position  to  force  his  will  on  them, 
in  orthodox  military  fashion,  by  the  cat  o'  nine  tails. 
The  French  Revolution,  which  has  escaped  suppression 
solely  through  the  monarchy's  habit  of  being  at  least 
four  years  in  arrear  with  its  soldiers  in  the  matter  of 
pay,  has  substituted  for  that  habit,  as  far  as  possible, 
the  habit  of  not  paying  at  all,  except  in  promises  and 
patriotic  flatteries  which  are  not  compatible  with  martial 
law  of  the  Prussian  type.  Napoleon  has  therefore  ap^ 
proached  the  Alps  in  command  of  men  without  money, 
in  rags,  and  consequently  indisposed  to  stand  much  dis- 
cipline, especially  from  upstart  generals.  This  circum- 
stance, which  would  have  embarrassed  an  idealist  sol- 
dier, has  been  worth  a  thousand  cannon  to  Napoleon.  He 
has  said  to  his  army,  "  You  have  patriotism  and  cour- 
age; but  you  have  no  money,  no  clothes,  and  deplorably 
indifferent  food.  In  Italy  there  are  all  these  things, 
and  glory  as  well,  to  be  gained  by  a  devoted  army  led 
by  a  general  who  regards  loot  as  the  natural  right  of  the 
soldier.  I  am  such  a  general.  En  avant,  mes  enfants!  " 
The  result  has  entirely  justified  him.  The  army  con- 
quers Italy  as  the  locusts  conquered  Cyprus.  They 
fight  all  day  and  march  all  flight,  covering  impossible  dis- 
tances and  appearing  in  incredible  places,  not  because 
every  soldier  carries  a  field  marshal's  baton  in  his  knap- 
sack, but  because  he  hopes  to  carry  at  least  half  a  dozen 
silver  forks  there  next  day. 

It  must  be  understood,  by  the  way,  that  the  French 
army  does  not  make  war  on  the  Italians.  It  is  there 
to  rescue  them  from  the  tyranny  of  their  Austrian  con- 
querors, and  confer  republican  institutions  on  them;  so 
that  in  incidentally  looting  them,  it  merely  makes  free 


166  The  Man  of  Destiny 

nnth  the  property  of  its  friends,  who  ought  to  he  grateful 
to  it,  and  perhaps  jvould  he  if  ingratitude  were  not  the 
proverhial  failing  of  their  country.  The  Austrians, 
whom  it  fights,  are  a  thoroughly  respectahle  regular  army, 
well  disciplined,  commanded  hy  gentlemen  trained  and 
versed  in  the  art  of  war:  at  the  head  of  them  Beaulieu, 
practising  the  classic  art  of  war  under  orders  from 
Vienna,  and  getting  horrihly  heaten  hy  Napoleon,  who 
acts  on  his  own  responsihility  in  defiance  of  professional 
precedents  or  orders  from  Paris.  Even  when  the  Austri- 
ans win  a  hattle,  all  that  is  necessary  is  to  wait  until 
their  routine  ohliges  them  to  return  to  their  quarters  for 
afternoon  tea,  so  to  speak,  and  win  it  hack  again  from 
them:  a  course  pursued  later  on  with  brilliant  success  at 
Marengo.  On  the  whole,  with  his  foe  handicapped  by 
Austrian  statesmanship,  classic  generalship,  and  the  exi- 
gencies of  the  aristocratic  social  structure  of  Viennese  so- 
ciety. Napoleon  finds  it  possible  to  he  irresistible  without 
working  heroic  miracles.  The  world,  however,  likes 
miracles  and  heroes,  and  is  quite  incapable  of  conceiving 
the  action  of  such  forces  as  academic  militarism  or  Vi- 
ennese drawing-roomism.  Hence  it  has  already  begun 
to  manufacture  "  L'Empereur,"  and  thus  to  make  it  dif- 
ficult for  the  romanticists  of  a  hundred  years  later  to 
credit  the  little  scene  now  in  question  at  Tavazzano  as 
aforesaid. 

The  best  quarters  at  Tavazzano  are  at  a  little  inn,  the 
first  house  reached  by  travellers  passing  through  the 
place  from  Milan  to  Lodi.  It  stands  in  a  vineyard; 
and  its  principal  room,  a  pleasant  refuge  from  the  sum- 
mer heat,  is  open  so  widely  at  the  back  to  this  vineyard 
that  it  is  almost  a  large  veranda.  The  bolder  children, 
much  excited  hy  the  alarums  and  excursions  of  the  past 
few  days,  and  hy  an  irruption  of  French  troops  at  six 
o'clock,  know  that  the  French  coinmajider  has  quartered 
himself  in  this  room,  and  are  divided  between  a  crav-< 
ing  to  peep  in  at  the  front  windows  and  a  mortal  terror 


The  Man  of  Destiny  167 

of  the  sentinel,  a  young  gentleman-soldier,  who,  having 
no  natural  -moustache,  has  had  a  most  ferocious  one 
painted  on  his  face  with  hoot  blacking  by  his  sergeant. 
As  his  heavy  uniform,  like  all  the  uniforms  of  that  day, 
is  designed  for  parade  without  the  least  reference  to  his 
health  or  comfort,  he  perspires  profusely  in  the  sun;  and 
his  painted  moustache  has  run  in  little  streaks  down  his 
chin  and  round  his  neck  except  where  it  has  dried  in- 
stiff  japanned  flakes,  and  had  its  sweeping  outline 
chipped  off  in  grotesque  little  hays  and  headlands,  mak- 
ing him  unspeakably  ridiculous  in  the  eye  of  History  a 
hundred  years  later,  hut  monstrous  and  horrible  to  the 
contemporary  north  Italian  infant,  to  whom  nothing 
would  seem  more  natural  than  that  he  should  relieve  the 
monotony  of  his  guard  by  pitchforking  a  stray  child  up 
on  his  bayonet,  and  eating  it  uncooked.  Nevertheless 
one  girl  of  had  character,  in  whom  an  instinct  of  privi- 
lege with  soldiers  is  already  dawning,  does  peep  in  at  the 
safest  window  for  a  moment,  before  a  glance  and  a 
clink  from  the  sentinel  sends  her  flying.  Most  of  what 
she  sees  she  has  seen  before:  the  vineyard  at  the  back, 
with  the  old  winepress  and  a  cart  among  the  vines;  the 
door  close  down  on  her  right  leading  to  the  inn  entry; 
the  landlord's  best  sideboard,  now  in  full  action  for  din- 
ner, further  hack  on  the  same  side;  the  fireplace  on  the 
other  side,  with  a  couch  near  it,  and  another  door,  lead- 
ing to  the  inner  rooms,  between  it  and  the  vineyard;  and 
the  table  in  the  middle  with  its  repast  of  Milanese  risotto, 
cheese,  grapes,  bread,  olives,  and  a  big  wickered  flask  of 
red  wine. 

The  landlord,  Giuseppe  Grandi,  is  also  no  novelty. 
He  is  a  swarthy,  vivacious,  shrewdly  cheerfid,  black- 
curled,  bullet-headed,  grinning  little  man  of  JfO.  Nat- 
urally an  excellent  host,  he  is  in  quite  special  spirits 
this  evening  at  his  good  fortune  in  having  the  French 
commander  as  his  guest  to  protect  him  against  the  li- 
cense of  the  troops,  and  actually  sports  a  pair  of  gold 


168  The  Man  of  Destiny 

earrings  whicli  he  would  otherwise  have  hidden  care- 
fully under  the  winepress  with  his  little  equipment  of 
silver  plate. 

Napoleon,  sitting  facing  her  on  the  further  side  of  the 
table,  and  Napoleon's  hat,  sword  and  riding  whip  lying 
on  the  couch,  she  sees  for  the  first  time.  He  is  working 
hard,  partly  at  his  meal,  which  he  has  discovered  how  to 
dispatch,  by  attacking  all  the  courses  simultaneously,  in 
ten  minutes  (this  practice  is  the  beginning  of  his  down- 
fall), and  partly  at  a  map  which  he  is  correcting  from 
memory,  occasionally  marking  the  position  of  the  forces 
by  taking  a  grapeskin  from  his  mouth  and  planting  it  on 
the  map  with  his  thumb  like  a  wafer.  He  has  a  supply 
of  writing  materials  before  him  mixed  up  in  disorder 
with  the  dishes  and  cruets;  and  his  long  hair  gets  some- 
times into  the  risotto  gravy  and  sometimes  into  the  ink. 

Giuseppe.     Will  your  excellency- 


Napoleon  (intent  on  his  map,  but  cramming  himself 
mechanically  with  his  left  hand).     Don't  talk.    I'm  busy. 

Giuseppe  (with  perfect  goodhumor).  Excellency:  I 
obey. 

Napoleon.     Some  red  ink. 

Giuseppe.     Alas  !  excellency,  there  is  none. 

Napoleon  (with  Corsican  facetiousness).  Kill  some- 
thing and  bring  me  its  blood. 

Giuseppe  (grinning).  There  is  nothing  but  your  ex- 
cellency's horse,  the  sentinel,  the  lady  upstairs,  and  my 
wife. 

Napoleon.     Kill  your  wife. 

Giuseppe.  Willingly,  your  excellency;  but  unhap- 
pily I  am  not  strong  enough.     She  would  kill  me. 

Napoleon.      That  will  do  equally  well. 

Giuseppe.  Your  excellency  does  me  too  much  honor. 
(Stretching  his  hand  toward  the  flask.)  Perhaps  some 
wine  will  answer  your  excellency's  purpose. 

Napoleon  (hastily  protecting  the  flask,  and  becoming 


The  Man  of  Destiny  169 

quite  serious).  Wine!  No:  that  would  be  waste.  You 
are  all  the  same:  waste!  waste!  waste!  (He  marks  the 
map  with  gravy,  using  his  fork  as  a  pen.)  Clear  away. 
(He  finishes  his  wine;  pushes  back  his  chair;  and  uses 
his  napkin,  stretching  his  legs  and  leaning  back,  but  still 
frowning  and  thinking.) 

Giuseppe  (clearing  the  table  and  removing  the  things 
to  a  tray  on  the  sideboard).  Every  man  to  his  trade, 
excellency.  We  innkeepers  have  plenty  of  cheap  wine: 
we  think  nothing  of  spilling  it.  You  great  generals  have 
plenty  of  cheap  blood:  you  think  nothing  of  spilling  it. 
Is  it  not  so,  excellency? 

Napoleon.  Blood  costs  nothing:  wine  costs  money. 
(He  rises  and  goes  to  the  fireplace.) 

Giuseppe.  They  say  you  are  careful  of  everything 
except  human  life,  excellency. 

Napoleon.  Human  life,  my  friend,  is  the  only  thing 
that  takes  care  of  itself.  (He  throws  himself  at  his  ease 
on  the  couch.) 

Giuseppe  (admiring  him).  Ah,  excellency,  what 
fools  we  all  are  beside  you !  If  I  could  only  find  out  the 
secret  of  your  success ! 

Napoleon.  You  would  make  yourself  Emperor  of 
Italy,  eh  ? 

Giuseppe.  Too  troublesome,  excellency:  I  leave  all 
that  to  you.  Besides,  what  would  become  of  my  inn  if 
I  were  Emperor?  See  how  you  enjoy  looking  on  at  me 
whilst  I  keep  the  inn  for  you  and  wait  on  you!  Well, 
I  shall  enjoy  looking  on  at  you  whilst  you  become  Em- 
peror of  Europe,  and  govern  the  country  for  me. 
(Whilst  he  chatters,  he  takes  the  cloth  off  without  re- 
moving the  map  and  inkstand,  and  takes  the  corners  in 
his  hands  and  the  middle  of  the  edge  in  his  mouth,  to 
fold  it  up.) 

Napoleon.  Emperor  of  Europe,  eh?  Why  only 
Europe  ? 

Giuseppe.     Why,  indeed?  Emperor  of  the  world,  ex- 


170  Tlie  Man  of  Destiny 

cellency!  Why  not?  {He  folds  and  rolls  up  the  cloth, 
emphasizing  his  phrases  by  the  steps  of  the  process.) 
One  man  is  like  another  (fold) :  one  country  is  like 
another  (fold):  one  battle  is  like  another.  (At  the  last 
fold,  he  slaps  the  cloth  on  the  table  and  deftly  rolls  it 
up,  adding,  by  way  of  peroration)  Conquer  one:  conquer 
all.  {He  takes  the  cloth  to  the  sideboard,  and  puts  it  in 
a  drarver.) 

Napoleon.  And  govern  for  all;  fight  for  all;  be 
everybody's  servant  under  cover  of  being  everybody's 
master.     Giuseppe. 

Giuseppe  {at  the  sideboard).     Excellency. 

Napoleon.      I  forbid  you  to  talk  to  me  about  myself. 

Giuseppe  (coming  to  the  foot  of  the  couch).  Pardon. 
You  excellency  is  so  unlike  other  great  men.  It  is  the 
subject  they  like  best. 

Napoleon.  Well,  talk  to  me  about  tlie  subject  they 
like  next  best,  whatever  that  may  be. 

Giuseppe  (unabashed).  Willingly,  your  excellency. 
Has  your  excellency  by  any  chance  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  lady  upstairs.''  (Napoleon  promptly  sits  up  and 
looks  at  him  with  an  interest  which  entirely  justifies  the 
implied  epigram.) 

Napoleon.     How  old  is  she? 

Giuseppe.     The  right  age,  excellency. 

Napoleon.     Do  you  mean  seventeen  or  thirty? 

Giuseppe.     Thirty,  excellency. 

Napoleon.     Goodlooking? 

Giuseppe.  I  cannot  see  with  your  excellency's  eyes: 
every  man  must  judge  that  for  himself.  In  my  opinion, 
excellency,  a  fine  figure  of  a  lady.  (Slyly.)  Shall  I 
lay  the  table  for  her  collation  here? 

Napoleon  (brusquely,  rising).  No:  lay  nothing  here 
until  the  officer  for  whom  I  am  waiting  comes  back.  (He 
looks  at  his  watch,  and  takes  to  walking  to  and  fro  be- 
tween the  fireplace  and  the  vineyard.) 

Giuseppe   (with  conviction).     Excellency:  believe  me, 


The  Man  of  Destiny  171 

he  has  been  captured  by  the  accursed  Austrians.  He 
dare  not  keep  3'ou  waiting  if  he  were  at  liberty. 

Napoleon  (turning  at  the  edge  of  the  shadow  of  the 
veranda).  Giuseppe:  if  that  turns  out  to  be  true,  it  will 
put  me  into  such  a  temper  that  nothing  short  of  hanging 
you  and  your  whole  household^  including  the  lady  up- 
stairs, will  satisfy  me. 

Giuseppe.  We  are  all  cheerfully  at  your  excellency's 
disposal,  except  the  lady.  I  cannot  answer  for  her;  but 
no  lady  could  resist  you.  General. 

Napoleon  (sourly,  resuming  his  march).  Hm !  You 
will  never  be  hanged.  There  is  no  satisfaction  in  hang- 
ing a  man  who  does  not  object  to  it. 

Giuseppe  (sympathetically).  Not  the  least  in  the 
world,  excellency:  is  there?  (Napoleon  again  looks  at 
his  watch,  evidently  growing  anxious.)  Ah,  one  can  see 
that  you  are  a  great  man.  General:  you  know  how  to 
wait.  If  it  were  a  corporal  now,  or  a  sub-lieutenant,  at 
the  end  of  three  minutes  he  would  be  swearing,  fuming, 
threatening,  pulling  the  house  about  our  ears. 

Napoleon.  Giuseppe:  your  flatteries  are  insuffer- 
able. Go  and  talk  outside.  (He  sits  dorvn  again  at  the 
table,  with  his  jaws  in  his  hands,  and  his  elbows  propped 
on  the  map,  poring  over  it  with  a  troubled  expression.) 

Giuseppe.  Willingly,  your  excellency.  You  shall  not 
be  disturbed.  (He  takes  up  the  tray  and  prepares  to 
withdraw.) 

Napoleon.  The  moment  he  comes  back,  send  him 
to  me. 

Giuseppe.      Instantaneously,  your  excellency. 

A  Lady's  Voice  (calling  from  some  distant  part  of 
the  inn).  Giusep-pe !  (The  voice  is  very  musical,  and 
the  two  final  notes  make  an  ascending  interval.) 

Napoleon  (startled).     What's  that?     What's  that? 

Giuseppe  (resting  the  end  of  his  tray  on  the  table  and 
leaning  over  to  speak  the  more  confidentially).  The 
lady,  excellency. 


172  The  Man  of  Destiny 

Napoleon  {absently).  Yes.  What  lady?  Whose 
lady? 

Giuseppe.     The  strange  lady,  excellency. 

Napoleon.     WTiat  strange  lady? 

Giuseppe  (rvith  a  shrug).  Who  knows?  She  arrived 
here  half  an  hour  before  you  in  a  hired  carriage  belong- 
ing to  the  Golden  Eagle  at  Borghetto.  Actually  by 
herself,  excellency.  No  servants.  A  dressing  bag  and 
a  trmik:  that  is  all.  The  postillion  says  she  left  a  horse 
— a  charger,  with  military  trappings,  at  the  Golden 
Eagle. 

Napoleon.  A  woman  with  a  charger!  That's  extra- 
ordinarv. 

The  Lady's  Voice  {the  two  final  notes  now  making  a 
peremptory  descending  interval).     Giuseppe! 

Napoleon  {rising  to  listen).  That's  an  interesting 
voice. 

Giuseppe.  She  is  an  interesting  lady,  excellency. 
{Calling.)  Coming,  lady,  coming.  {He  makes  for  the 
inner  door.) 

Napoleon  {arresting  him  with  a  strong  hand  on  his 
shoulder).     Stop.     Let  her  come. 

Voice.     Giuseppe!!     {Impatiently.) 

Giuseppe  {pleadingly).  Let  me  go,  excellency.  It  is 
my  point  of  honor  as  an  innkeeper  to  come  when  I  am 
called.     I  appeal  to  you  as  a  soldier. 

A  Man's  Voice  {outside,  at  the  inn  door,  shouting). 
Here,  someone.  Hollo !  Landlord.  Where  are  you  ? 
{Somebody  raps  vigorously  with  a  whip  handle  on  a 
bench  in  the  passage.) 

Napoleon  {suddenly  becoming  the  commanding  offi- 
cer again  and  ir rowing  Giuseppe  off).  There  he  is  at 
last.  {Pointing  to  the  inner  door.)  Go.  Attend  to 
your  business:  the  lady  is  calling  you.  {He  goes  to  the 
fireplace  and  stands  with  his  back  to  it  with  a  determined 
military  air.) 

Giuseppe  {with  bated  breath,  snatching  up  his  tray)  , 


The  Man  of  Destiny  173 

Certainly,    excellency,      {He   hurries   out    by    the   inner 
door.) 

The  Man's  Voice  (impatiently).  Are  you  all  asleep 
here?  (The  door  opposite  the  fireplace  is  kicked  rudely 
open;  and  a  dusty  sub-lieutenant  bursts  into  the  room. 
He  is  a  chuckle-headed  young  man  of  21f.,  with,  the  fair, 
delicate,  clear  skin  of  a  man  of  rank,  and  a  self- 
assurance  on  that  ground  rvhich  the  French  Revolution 
has  failed  to  shake  in  the  smallest  degree.  He  has  a 
thick  silly  lip,  an  eager  credulous  eye,  an  obstinate  nose, 
and  a  loud  confident  voice.  A  young  man  without  fear, 
without  reverence,  without  imagination,  without  sense, 
hopelessly  i7isusceptible  to  the  Napoleonic  or  any  other 
idea,  stupendously  egotistical,  eminently  qualified  to 
rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,  yet  of  a  vigorous 
babbling  vitality  which  bustles  him  into  the  thick  of 
things.  He  is  just  now  boiling  with  vexation,  attrib- 
utable by  a  superficial  observer  to  his  impatience  at  not 
being  promptly  attended  to  by  the  staff  of  the  inn,  but 
in  which  a  more  discerning  eye  can  perceive  a  certain 
moral  depth,  indicating  a  more  permanent  and  momen- 
tous grievance.  On  seeing  Napoleon,  he  is  sufficiently 
taken  aback  to  check  himself  and  salute;  but  he  does  not 
betray  by  his  manner  any  of  that  prophetic  conscious- 
ness of  Marengo  and  Austerlitz,  Waterloo  and  St.  Hel- 
ena, or  the  Napoleonic  pictures  of  Delaroche  and  Meis- 
sonier,  which  modern  culture  will  instinctively  expect 
from  him.) 

Napoleon  (sharply).  Well,  sir,  here  you  are  at  last. 
Your  instructions  were  that  I  should  arrive  here  at  six, 
and  that  I  was  to  find  you  waiting  for  me  with  my  mail 
from  Paris  and  with  despatches.  It  is  now  twenty  min- 
utes to  eight.  You  were  sent  on  this  service  as  a  hard 
rider  with  the  fastest  horse  in  the  camp.  You  arrive  a 
hundred  minutes  late,  on  foot.     Where  is  your  horse ! 

The  Lieutenant  (moodily  pulling  off  his  gloves  and 
dashing  them  with  his  cap  and  whip  on  the  table).    Ah! 


174  The  Man  of  Destiny 

where  indeed?  That's  just  what  I  should  like  io  know, 
GeneraL  {With  emotion.^  You  don't  know  how  fond 
I  was  of  that  horse. 

Napoleon  {angrily  sarcastic).  Indeed!  {With,  sud- 
den misgiving.)     Where  are  the  letters  and  despatches? 

The  Lieutenant  {importantly,  ratlier  pleased  than 
otherrvise  at  having  some  remarkable  nervs).  I  don't 
know. 

Napoleon  {unable  to  believe  his  ears).  You  don't 
know ! 

Lieutenant.  No  more  than  you  do.  General.  Now 
I  suppose  I  shall  be  court-martialled.  Well,  I  don't 
mind  being  court-martialled;  but  {with  solemn  deter- 
mination) I  tell  you.  General,  if  ever  I  catch  that  inno- 
cent looking  youth,  I'll  spoil  his  beauty,  the  slimy  little 
liar!     I'll  make  a  picture  of  him.     I'll 

Napoleon  {advancing  from  the  hearth  to  the  table). 
What  innocent  looking  youth?  Pull  yourself  together, 
sir,  will  you;  and  give  an  account  of  yourself. 

Lieutenant  {facing  him  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table,  leaning  on  it  with  his  fists).  Oh,  I'm  all  right. 
General:  I'm  perfectly  ready  to  give  an  account  of  my- 
self. I  shall  make  the  court-martial  thoroughly  under- 
stand that  the  fault  was  not  mine.  Advantage  has  been 
taken  of  the  better  side  of  my  nature;  and  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  it.  But  with  all  respect  to  you  as  my  com- 
manding officer.  General,  I  say  again  that  if  ever  I  set 
eyes  on  that  son  of  Satan,  I'll 

Napoleon  {angrily).     So  you  said  before. 

Lieutenant  {drawing  himself  upright).  I  say  it 
again.  Just  wait  until  I  catch  him.  Just  wait:  that's 
all.  {He  folds  his  arms  resolutely,  and  breathes  hard, 
with  compressed  lips.) 

Napoleon,     I  am  waiting,  sir — for  your  explanation. 

Lieutenant  {confidently).  You'll  change  your  tone. 
General,  when  you  hear  what  has  happened  to  me. 

Napoleon.     Nothing  has  happened  to  you,  sir:  you 


The  Man  of  Destiny  175 

are  alive  and  not  disabled.  Where  are  the  papers  en- 
trusted to  you? 

Lieutenant.  Nothing!  Nothing!!  Oho!  Well, 
we'll  see.  (Posing  himself  to  overwhelm  Napoleon  with 
his  news.)  He  swore  eternal  brotherhood  with  me.  Was 
that  nothing.^  He  said  my  eyes  reminded  him  of  his 
sister's  eyes.  Was  that  nothing?  He  cried — actually 
cried — over  the  story  of  my  separation  from  Angelica. 
Was  that  nothing?  He  paid  for  both  bottles  of  wine, 
though  he  only  ate  bread  and  grapes  himself.  Perhaps 
you  call  that  nothing !  He  gave  me  his  pistols  and  his 
horse  and  his  despatches — most  important  despatches — 
and  let  me  go  away  with  them.  (Triumphantly,  seeing 
that  he  has  reduced  Napoleon  to  blank  stupefaction.) 
Was  that  nothing? 

Napoleon  (enfeebled  by  astonishment).  What  did 
he  do  that  for? 

Lieutenant  (as  if  the  reason  were  obvious).  To 
shew  his  confidence  in  me.  (Napoleon's  jaw  does  not 
exactly  drop;  but  its  hinges  become  nerveless.  The 
Lieutenant  proceeds  with  honest  indignation.)  And 
I  was  worthy  of  his  confidence:  I  brought  them  all 
back  honorably.  But  would  you  believe  it? — when  I 
trusted  him  with  my  pistols,  and  my  horse,  and  my 
despatches 

Napoleon  (enraged).  What  the  devil  did  you  do 
that  for? 

Lieutenant.  Wliy,  to  shew  my  confidence  in  him,  of 
course.  And  he  betrayed  it — abused  it — never  came 
back.  The  thief !  the  swindler !  the  heartless,  treacher- 
ous little  blackguard !  You  call  that  nothing,  I  suppose. 
But  look  here.  General:  (again  resorting  to  the  table 
with  his  fist  for  greater  emphasis)  you  may  put  up  with 
this  outrage  from  the  Austrians  if  you  like;  but  speak- 
ing for  myself  personally,  I  tell  you  that  if  ever  I 
catch 

Napoleon    (turning  on  his  heel  in  disgust  and  irri- 


176  The  Man  of  Destiny 

tahly  resuming  his  march  to  and  fro).     Yet,:  you  have 
said  that  more  tlian  once  already. 

LiEVTEN ANT  (excitedly).  More  than  once !  I'll  say  it 
fifty  times;  and  what's  more  I'll  do  it.  You'll  see,  Gen- 
eral,  I'll  shew  my  confidence  in  him,  so  I  will.   I'll 

Napoleon.  Yes,  yes,  sir:  no  doubt  you  will.  What 
kind  of  man  was  he.'' 

Lieutenant.  Well,  I  should  think  you  ought  to  be 
able  to  tell  from  his  conduct  the  sort  of  man  he  was. 

Napoleon.     Psh !     What  was  he  like? 

Lieutenant.  Like!  He's  like — well,  you  ought  to 
have  just  seen  the  fellow:  that  will  give  you  a  notion  of 
what  he  was  like.  He  won't  be  like  it  five  minutes  after 
I  catch  him;  for  I  tell  you  that  if  ever 

Napoleon  (shouting  furiously  for  the  innkeeper). 
Giuseppe!  (To  the  Lieutenant,  out  of  all  patience.) 
Hold  your  tongue,  sir,  if  you  can. 

Lieutenant.  I  warn  you  it's  no  use  to  try  to  put  the 
blame  on  me.  (Plaintively.)  How  was  I  to  know  the 
sort  of  fellow  he  was.?  (He  takes  a  chair  from  between 
the  sideboard  and  the  outer  door;  places  it  near  the 
table;  and  sits  doivn.)  If  you  only  knew  how  hungry 
and  tired  I  am,  you'd  have  more  consideration. 

Giuseppe  (returning).     What  is  it,  excellency.? 

Napoleon  (struggling  with  his  temper).  Take  this 
— this  officer.  Feed  him;  and  put  him  to  bed,  if  neces- 
sary. When  he  is  in  his  right  mind  again,  find  out  what 
has  happened  to  him  and  bring  me  word.  (To  the  Lieu- 
tenant.)    Consider  yourself  under  arrest,  sir. 

Lieutenant  (with  sulky  stiffness).  I  was  prepared 
for  that.  It  takes  a  gentleman  to  understand  a  gentle- 
man. (He  throws  his  sword  on  the  table.  Giuseppe 
takes  it  up  and  politely  offers  it  to  Napoleon,  who  throws 
it  violently  on  the  couch.) 

Giuseppe  (with  sympathetic  concern).  Have  you 
been  attacked  by  the  Austrians,  lieutenant?  Dear,  dear, 
dear! 


The  Man  of  Destiny  177 

Lieutenant  {contemptuously).  Attacked!  I  could 
have  broken  his  back  between  my  finger  and  thumb.  I 
wish  I  had,  now.  No:  it  was  by  appealing  to  the  better 
side  of  my  nature:  that's  what  I  can't  get  over.  He  said 
he'd  never  met  a  man  he  liked  so  much  as  me.  He  put 
his  handkerchief  round  my  neck  because  a  gnat  bit  me, 
and  my  stock  was  chafing  it.  Look !  {He  pulls  a  hand- 
kerchief from  his  stock.  Giuseppe  takes  it  and  ex- 
amines it.) 

Giuseppe  (to  Napoleon).  A  lady's  handkerchief,  ex- 
cellency.    (He  smells  it.)     Perfumed! 

Napoleon.  Eh.''  (He  takes  it  and  looks  at  it  at- 
tentively.) Hm!  (He  smells  it.)  Ha!  (He  walks 
thoughtfully  across  the  room,  looking  at  the  handker- 
chief, which  he  finally  sticks  in  the  breast  of  his  coat.) 

Lieutenant.  Good  enough  for  him,  anyhow.  I  no- 
ticed that  he  had  a  woman's  hands  when  he  touched  my 
neck,  with  his  coaxing,  fawning  ways,  the  mean,  effemi- 
nate little  hound.  (Lowering  his  voice  with  thrilling 
intensity.)     But  mark  my  words,  General.     If  ever 

The   Lady's  Voice    (outside,  as  before).     Giuseppe! 

Lieutenant  (petrified).     What  was  that? 

Giuseppe.  Only  a  lady  upstairs,  lieutenant,  calling 
me. 

Lieutenant.     Lady ! 

Voice.     Giuseppe,  Giuseppe:  where  are  you? 

Lieutenant  (murderously).  Give  me  that  sword. 
(He  strides  to  the  couch;  snatches  the  sword;  and  draws 
it.) 

Giuseppe  (rushing  forward  and  seizing  his  right 
arm.)  What  are  you  thinking  of,  lieutenant?  It's  a 
lady:  don't  you  hear  that  it's  a  woman's  voice? 

Lieutenant.  It's  his  voice,  I  tell  you.  Let  me  go. 
(He  breaks  away,  and  rushes  to  the  inner  door.  It  opens 
in  his  face;  and  the  Strange  Lady  steps  in.  She  is  a 
very  attractive  lady,  tall  and  extraordinarily  gracefid, 
with  a  delicately   intelligent,  apprehensive,   questioning 


178  The  Man  of  Destiny 

face — perception  in.  the  brow,  sensitiveness  in  the  nos- 
trils, character  in  the  chin:  all  keen,  refined,  and  orig- 
inal. She  is  very  feminine,  but  by  no  means  weak:  the 
lithe,  tender  figure  is  hung  on  a  strong  frame:  the  hands 
and  feet,  neck  and  shoulders,  are  no  fragile  ornaments, 
but  of  full  size  in  proportion  to  her  stature,  rvhich  con- 
siderably exceeds  that  of  Napoleon  and  the  innkeeper, 
and  leaves  her  at  no  disadvantage  rvith  the  lieutenant. 
Only,  her  elegance  and  radiant  charm  keep  the  secret 
of  her  size  and  strength.  She  is  not,  judging  by  her 
dress,  an  admirer  of  the  latest  fashions  of  the  Directory; 
or  perhaps  she  uses  up  her  old  dresses  for  travelling. 
At  all  events  she  wears  no  jacket  with  extravagant  lap- 
pels,  no  Greco-Tallien  sham  chiton,  nothing,  indeed,  that 
the  Princesse  de  Lamballe  might  not  have  worn.  Her 
dress  of  flowered  silk  is  long  waisted,  with  a  JVatteau 
pleat  behind,  but  with  the  paniers  reduced  to  mere  rudi- 
ments, as  she  is  too  tall  for  them.  It  is  cut  low  in  the 
neck,  where  it  is  eked  out  by  a  creamy  fichu.  She  is 
fair,  with  golden  brojvn  hair  and  grey  eyes. 

She  enters  with  the  self-possession  of  a  woman  accus- 
tomed to  the  privileges  of  rank  and  beauty.  The  inn- 
keeper, who  has  excellent  natural  manners,  is  highly  ap- 
preciative of  her.  Napoleon,  on  whom  her  eyes  first 
fall,  is  instantly  smitten  self-conscious.  His  color  deep- 
ens: he  becomes  stiver  and  less  at  ease  than  before. 
She  perceives  this  instantly,  and,  not  to  embarrass  him, 
turns  in  an  infinitely  well  bred  manner  to  pay  the  respect 
of  a  glance  to  the  other  gentleman,  who  is  staring  at  her 
dress,  as  at  the  earth's  final  masterpiece  of  treacherous 
dissimulation,  with  feelings  altogether  inexpressible  and 
indescribable.  As  she  looks  at  him,  she  becomes  deadly 
pale.  There  is  no  mistaking  her  expression:  a  revela- 
tion of  some  fatal  ejTor,  utterly  unexpected,  has  sud- 
denly appalled  her  in  the  midst  of  tranquillity,  security 
and  victory.  The  next  moment  a  wave  of  color  rushes 
up  from  beneath  the  creamy  fichu  and  drowns  her  whole 


The  Man  of  Destiny  179 

face.  One  can  see  that  she  is  blushing  all  over  her  body. 
Even  the  lieutenant,  ordinarily  incapable  of  observation, 
and  just  now  lost  in  the  tumult  of  his  wrath,  can  see  a 
thing  when  it  is  painted  red  for  him.  Interpreting  the 
blush  as  the  involuntary  confession  of  black  deceit  con- 
fronted with  its  victim,  he  points  to  it  with  a  loud  crow 
of  retributive  triumph,  and  then,  seizing  her  by  the  wrist, 
pulls  her  past  him  into  the  room  a^  he  claps  the  door  to, 
and  plants  himself  with  his  back  to  it.) 

Lieutenant.  So  I've  got  you,  my  lad.  So  you've 
disguised  yourself,  have  you?  (In  a  voice  of  thunder.) 
Take  off  that  skirt. 

Giuseppe    (remonstrating).     Oh,  lieutenant! 

Lady  (affrighted,  but  highly  indignant  at  his  having 
dared  to  touch  her).  Gentlemen:  I  appeal  to  you, 
Giuseppe.  (Making  a  movement  as  if  to  run  to  Giu- 
seppe.) 

Lieutenant  (interposing,  sword  in  hand).  No  you 
don't. 

Lady  (taking  refuge  with  Napoleon).  Oh,  sir,  you 
are  an  officer — a  general.  You  will  protect  me,  will  you 
not? 

Lieutenant.  Never  you  mind  him.  General.  Leave 
me  to  deal  with  him. 

Napoleon.  With  him!  With  whom,  sir?  Why  do 
you  treat  this  lady  in  such  a  fashion  ? 

Lieutenant.  Lady!  He's  a  man!  the  man  I  shewed 
my  confidence  in.  (Advancing  threateningly.)  Here 
you 

Lady  (running  behind  Napoleon  and  in  her  agitation 
embracing  the  arm  which  he  instinctively  extends  before 
her  as  a  fortification).  Oh,  thank  you.  General.  Keep 
him  away. 

Napoleon.  Nonsense,  sir.  This  is  certainly  a  lady 
(she  suddenly  drops  his  arm  and  blushes  again)  ;  and 
you  are  under  arrest.  Put  down  your  sword,  sir,  in- 
stantly. 


180  The  Man  of  Destiny 

Lieutenant.  General:  I  tell  you  he's  an  Austrian 
spy.  He  passed  himself  off  on  me  as  one  of  General 
JVIassena's  staif  this  afternoon;  and  now  he's  passing 
himself  off  on  you  as  a  woman.  Am  I  to  believe  my  own 
eyes  or  not.'' 

Lady.  General:  it  must  be  my  brother.  He  is  on 
General  Massena's  staff.     He  is  very  like  me. 

Lieutenant  (his  mind  giving  way).  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  you're  not  your  brother,  but  your  sister? — 
the  sister  who  was  so  like  me? — who  had  my  beautiful 
blue  eyes?  It  was  a  lie:  your  eyes  are  not  like  mine: 
they're  exactly  like  your  o%vn.     What  perfidy! 

Napoleon.  Lieutenant:  will  you  obey  my  orders  and 
leave  the  room,  since  you  are  convinced  at  last  that  this 
is  no  gentleman? 

Lieutenant.  Gentleman!  I  should  think  not.  No 
gentleman  would  have  abused  my  confi 

Napoleon  (out  of  all  patience).  Enough,  sir,  enough. 
Will  you  leave  the  room.  I  order  you  to  leave  the 
room. 

Lady.     Oh,  pray  let  me  go  instead. 

Napoleon  (drily).  Excuse  me,  madame.  With  all 
respect  to  your  brother,  I  do  not  yet  understand  what 
an  officer  on  General  Massena's  staff  wants  with  my  let- 
ters.    I  have  some  questions  to  put  to  you. 

Giuseppe  (discreetly).  Come,  lieutenant.  (He  opens 
the  door.) 

Lieutenant.  I'm  off.  General:  take  warning  by 
me:  be  on  your  guard  against  the  better  side  of  your 
nature.  (To  the  lady.)  Madame:  my  apologies.  I 
thought  you  Avere  the  same  person,  only  of  the  opposite 
sex;  and  that  naturally  misled  me. 

Lady  (srveetly).  It  was  not  your  fault,  was  it?  I'm 
so  glad  you're  not  angry  with  me  any  longer,  lieutenant. 
(She  offers  her  hand.) 

Lieutenant  (bending  gallantly  to  Jciss  it).  Oh, 
madam,  not  the  lea —     (Checking  himself  and  looking 


The  Man  of  Destiny  181 

at  it.')  You  have  your  brother's  hand.  And  the  same 
sort  of  ring. 

Lady  (sweetly).     We  are  twins. 

Lieutenant.  That  accounts  for  it.  (He  kisses  her 
hand.)  A  thousand  pardons.  I  didn't  mind  about  the 
despatches  at  all:  that's  more  the  General's  affair  than 
mine:  it  was  the  abuse  of  my  confidence  through  the 
better  side  of  my  nature.  (Taking  his  cap,  gloves,  and 
whip  from  the  table  and  going.)  You'll  excuse  my  leav- 
ing you.  General,  I  hope.  Very  sorry,  I'm  sure.  (He 
talks  himself  out  of  the  room.  Giuseppe  follows  him 
and  shuts  the  door.) 

Napoleon  (looking  after  them  with  concentrated  irri- 
tation). Idiot!  (The  Strange  Lady  smiles  sympatheti- 
cally. He  comes  frowning  down  the  room  between  the 
table  and  the  fireplace,  all  his  awkwardness  gone  now 
that  he  is  alone  with  her.) 

Lady.  How  can  I  thank  you.  General,  for  your  pro- 
tection ? 

Napoleon  (turning  on  her  suddenly).  My  de- 
spatches: come!      (He  puts  out  his  hand  for  them.) 

Lady.  General!  (She  involuntarily  puts  her  hands 
on  her  fichu  as  if  to  protect  something  there.) 

Napoleon.  You  tricked  that  blockhead  out  of  them. 
You  disguised  yourself  as  a  man.  I  want  my  despatches. 
They  are  there  in  the  bosom  of  your  dress,  under  your 
hands. 

Lady  (quickly  removing  her  hands).  Oh,  how  un- 
kindly you  are  speaking  to  me!  (She  takes  Iter  hand- 
kerchief from  her  fichu.)  You  frighten  me.  (She 
touches  her  eyes  as  if  to  wipe  away  a  tear.) 

Napoleon.  I  see  you  don't  know  me  madam,  or  you 
would  save  yourself  the  trouble  of  pretending  to  cry. 

Lady  (producing  an  effect  of  smiling  through  her 
tears).  Yes,  I  do  know  you.  You  are  the  famous  Gen- 
eral Buonaparte.  (She  gives  the  name  a  marked  Italian 
pronunciation — Bwaw-na-parr-te.) 


182  The  Man  of  Destiny 

Napoleon  (angrily,  with  the  French  pronunciation). 
Bonaparte,  madame,  Bonaparte.  The  papers,  if  you 
please. 

Lady.  But  I  assure  you —  (He  snatches  the  hand- 
kerchief rudely   from   her.)      General!      (Indignantly.) 

Napoleon  (taking  the  other  handkerchief  from  his 
breast).  You  were  good  enough  to  lend  one  of  your 
handkerchiefs  to  my  lieutenant  when  you  robbed  him. 
(He  looks  at  the  two  handkerchiefs.)  They  match  one 
another.  (He  smells  them.)  The  same  scent.  (He 
flings  them  down  on  the  table.)  I  am  waiting  for  the 
despatches.  I  shall  take  them,  if  necessary,  with  as  lit- 
tle ceremony  as  the  handkerchief.  (This  historical  in- 
cident was  used  eighty  years  later,  by  M.  Victorien  Sar- 
dou,  in  his  drama  entitled  "  Dora.") 

Lady  (in  dignified  reproof).  General:  do  you  threaten 
women  } 

Napoleon  (bluntly).     Yes. 

Lady  (disconcerted,  trying  to  gain  time).  But  I  don't 
understand.     I 

Napoleon.  You  understand  perfectly.  You  came 
here  because  your  Austrian  employers  calculated  that  I 
was  six  leagues  away.  I  am  always  to  be  found  where 
my  enemies  don't  expect  me.  You  have  walked  into  the 
lion's  den.  Come:  you  are  a  brave  woman.  Be  a  sen- 
sible one:  I  have  no  time  to  waste.  The  papers.  (He 
advances  a  step  ominously). 

Lady  (breaking  down  in  the  childish  rage  of  impo- 
tence, and  throwing  herself  in  tears  on  the  chair  left 
beside  the  table  by  the  lieutenant).  I  brave!  How  lit- 
tle you  know !  I  have  spent  the  day  in  an  agony  of  fear. 
I  have  a  pain  here  from  the  tightening  of  my  heart  at 
every  suspicious  look,  every  threatening  movement.  Do 
jou  think  every  one  is  as  brave  as  you  }  Oh,  why  will  not 
you  brave  people  do  the  brave  things  ?  Why  do  you  leave 
them  to  us,  who  have  no  courage  at  all.''  I'm  not  brave; 
I  shrink  from  violence:  danger  makes  me  miserable. 


The  Man  of  Destiny  183 

Napoleon  {interested) .  Then  why  have  you  thrust 
yourself  into  danger? 

Lady.  Because  there  is  no  other  way:  I  can  trust 
nobody  else.  And  now  it  is  all  useless — all  because  of 
you,  who  have  no  fear,  because  you  have  no  heart,  no 
feeling,  no —  (She  breaks  off,  and  throws  herself  on 
her  hneesS)  Ah,  General,  let  me  go:  let  me  go  without 
asking  any  questions.  You  shall  have  your  despatches 
and  letters:  I  swear  it. 

Napoleon  {holding  out  his  hand).  Yes:  I  am  wait- 
ing for  them.  {She  gasps,  daunted  by  his  ruthless 
promptitude  into  despair  of  moving  him  by  cajolery; 
but  as  she  looks  up  perplexedly  at  him,  it  is  plain  that 
she  is  racking  her  brains  for  some  device  to  outrvit  him. 
He  meets  her  regard  inflexibly.) 

Lady  {rising  at  last  with  a  quiet  little  sigh).  I  will 
get  them  foT  yon.  They  are  in  my  room.  {She  turns  to 
the  door.) 

Napoleon.     I  shall  accompany  you,  madame. 

Lady  {drawing  herself  up  with  a  noble  air  of  offended 
delicacy),  I  cannot  permit  you.  General,  to  enter  my 
chamber. 

Napoleon.  Then  you  shall  stay  here,  madame,  whilst 
I  have  your  chamber  searched  for  my  papers. 

Lady  {spitefully,  openly  giving  up  her  plan).  You 
may  save  yourself  the  trouble.     They  are  not  there. 

Napoleon.  No:  I  have  already  told  you  where  they 
are.     {Pointing  to  her  breast.) 

Lady  {with  pretty  piteousness).  General:  I  only  want 
to  keep  one  little  private  letter.  Only  one.  Let  me 
have  it. 

Napoleon  {cold  and  stern).  Is  that  a  reasonable 
demand,  madam.'' 

Lady  {encouraged  by  his  not  refusing  point  blank). 
No;  but  that  is  why  you  must  grant  it.  Are  your  own 
demands  reasonable.''  thousands  of  lives  for  the  sake  of 
your  victories,  your  ambitions,  your  destiny !     And  what 


184  The  Man  of  Destiny 

I  ask  is  such  a  little  thing.  And  I  am  only  a  weak 
woman,  and  you  a  brave  man.  {She  looks  at  him  with 
her  eyes  full  of  tender  pleading  and  is  about  to  kneel 
to  him  again.) 

Napoleon  (brusquely).  Get  up,  get  up.  (He  turns 
moodily  away  and  takes  a  turn  across  the  room,  pausing 
for  a  moment  to  say,  over  his  shoidder)  You're  talking 
nonsense;  and  you  know  it.  (She  gets  up  and  sits  down 
in  almost  listless  despair  on  the  couch.  When  he  turns 
and  sees  her  there,  he  feels  that  his  victory  is  complete, 
and  that  he  may  now  indulge  in  a  little  play  with  his 
victim.  He  comes  back  and  sits  beside  her.  She  looks 
alarmed  and  moves  a  little  away  from  him;  but  a  ray  of 
rallying  hope  beams  from  her  eye.  He  begins  like  a 
man  enjoying  some  secret  joke.)  How  do  you  know  I 
am  a  brave  man.'' 

Lady  (amazed).  You!  General  Buonaparte.  (Ital- 
ian pronunciation.) 

Napoleon.  Yes,  I,  General  Bonaparte  (emphasizing 
the  French  pronunciation). 

Lady.  Oh,  how  can  you  ask  such  a  question?  you! 
who  stood  only  two  days  ago  at  the  bridge  at  Lodi,  with 
the  air  full  of  death,  fighting  a  duel  with  cannons  across 
the  river!      (Shuddering.)     Oh,  you  do  brave  things. 

Napoleon.     So  do  you. 

Lady.  I!  (With  a  sudden  odd  thought.)  Oh!  Are 
you  a  coward.'' 

Napoleon  (laughing  grimly  and  pinching  her  cheek). 
That  is  the  one  question  you  must  never  ask  a  soldier. 
The  sergeant  asks  after  the  recruit's  height,  his  age,  his 
wind,  his  limb,  but  never  after  his  courage.  (He  gets 
up  and  walks  about  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  his 
head  bowed,  chuckling  to  himself.) 

Lady  (as  if  she  had  found  it  no  laughing  matter). 
Ah,  you  can  laugh  at  fear.  Then  you  don't  know  what 
fear  is. 

Napoleon  (coming  behind  the  couch).     Tell  me  this. 


The  Man  of  Destiny  185 

Suppose  you  could  have  got  that  letter  by  coming  to  me 
over  the  bridge  at  Lodi  the  day  before  yesterday !  Sup- 
pose there  had  been  no  other  way,  and  that  this  was  a 
sure  way — if  only  you  escaped  the  cannon !  (She  shud- 
ders and  covers  her  eyes  for  a  moment  with  her  hands.) 
Would  you  have  been  af^-aid? 

Lady.  Oh,  horribly  afraid,  agonizingly  afraid.  (She 
presses  her  hand  on  her  heart.)  It  hurts  only  to  im- 
agine it. 

Napoleon  (inflexibly).  Would  you  have  come  for 
the  despatches.'' 

Lady  (overcome  by  the  imagined  horror).  Don't  ask 
me.     I  must  have  come. 

Napoleon.     Why? 

Lady.  Because  I  must.  Because  there  would  have 
been  no  other  way. 

Napoleon  (with  conviction).  Because  you  would 
have  wanted  my  letter  enough  to  bear  your  fear.  There 
is  only  one  universal  passion:  fear.  Of  all  the  thou- 
sand qualities  a  man  may  have,  the  only  one  you  will 
find  as  certainly  in  the  youngest  drummer  boy  in  my 
army  as  in  me,  is  fear.  It  is  fear  that  makes  men  fight: 
it  is  indifference  that  makes  them  run  away:  fear  is  the 
mainspring  of  war.  Fear ! — I  know  fear  well,  better 
than  you,  better  than  any  woman.  I  once  saw  a  regi- 
ment of  good  Swiss  soldiers  massacred  by  a  mob  in  Paris 
because  I  was  afraid  to  interfere :  I  felt  myself  a  coward 
to  the  tips  of  my  toes  as  I  looked  on  at  it.  Seven  months 
ago  I  revenged  my  shame  by  pounding  that  mob  to  death 
with  cannon  balls.  Well,  what  of  that.''  Has  fear  ever 
held  a  man  back  from  anything  he  really  wanted — or 
a  woman  either.''  Never.  Come  with  me;  and  I  will 
shew  you  twenty  thousand  cowards  who  will  risk  death 
every  day  for  the  price  of  a  glass  of  brandy.  And  do 
you  think  there  are  no  women  in  the  army,  braver  than 
the  men,  because  their  lives  are  worth  less .''  Psha !  I 
think  nothing  of  your  fear  or  your  bravery.     If  you  had 


186  The  Man  of  Destiny 

had  to  come  across  to  me  at  Lodi,  you  would  not  have 
been  afraid:  once  on  the  bridge,  every  other  feeling 
would  have  gone  down  before  the  necessity — the  ne- 
cessity— for  making  your  way  to  my  side  and  getting 
what  you  wanted. 

And  now,  suppose  you  had  done  all  this — suppose 
you  had  come  safely  out  with  that  letter  in  your  hand, 
knowing  that  when  the  hour  came,  your  fear  had  tight- 
ened, not  your  heart,  but  your  grip  of  your  own  pur- 
pose— that  it  had  ceased  to  be  fear,  and  had  become 
strength,  penetration,  vigilance,  iron  resolution — how 
would  you  answer  then  if  you  were  asked  whether  you 
were  a  coward? 

Lady  (rising).     Ah,  you  are  a  hero,  a  real  hero. 

Napoleon.  Pooh !  there's  no  such  thing  as  a  real 
hero.  (He  strolls  down  the  room,  making  light  of  her 
enthusiasm,  but  by  no  means  displeased  with  himself 
for  having  evoked  it.) 

Lady.  Ah,  yes,  there  is.  There  is  a  difference  be- 
tween what  you  call  my  bravery  and  yours.  You  wanted 
to  win  the  battle  of  Lodi  for  yourself  and  not  for  any- 
one else,  didn't  you? 

Napoleon.  Of  course.  (Suddenly  recollecting  him- 
self.) Stop:  no.  (Fie  pulls  himself  piously  together, 
and  says,  like  a  man  conducting  a  religious  service)  I 
am  only  the  servant  of  the  French  republic,  following 
humbly  in  the  footsteps  of  the  heroes  of  classical  an- 
tiquity. I  win  battles  for  humanity — for  my  country, 
not  for  myself. 

Lady  (disappointed) .  Oh,  then  you  are  only  a  woman- 
ish hero,  after  all.  (She  sits  down  again,  all  her  enthu- 
siasm gone,  her  elbow  on  the  end  of  the  couch,  and  her 
cheek  propped  on  her  hand.) 

Napoleon   (greatly  astonished).     Womanish! 

Lady  (listlessly).  Yes,  like  me.  (With  deep  melan-> 
choly.)  Do  you  think  that  if  I  only  wanted  those  de- 
spatches  for  myself,   I   dare  venture  into   a  battle   for 


The  Man  of  Destiny  187 

them?  No:  if  that  were  all^  I  should  not  have  the  cour- 
age to  ask  to  see  you  at  your  hotel,  even.  My  courage  is 
mere  slavishness :  it  is  of  no  use  to  me  for  my  own  pur- 
poses. It  is  only  through  love,  through  pity,  through  the 
instinct  to  save  and  protect  someone  else,  that  I  can  do 
the  things  that  terrify  me. 

Napoleon  (coyitemptuously).  Pshaw!  (He  turns 
slightingly  away  from  her.) 

Lady.  Aha!  now  you  see  that  I'm  not  really  brave. 
(Relapsing  into  petulant  listlessness.)  But  what  right 
have  you  to  despise  me  if  you  only  win  your  battles  for 
others  ?  for  your  country !  through  patriotism  !  That  is 
what  I  call  womanish :  it  is  so  like  a  Frenchman ! 

Napoleon  (furiously) .     I  am  no  Frenchman. 

Lady  (innocently) .  I  thought  you  said  you  won  the 
battle  of  Lodi  for  your  country.  General  Bu —  shall  I 
pronounce  it  in  Italian  or  French? 

Napoleon.  You  are  presuming  on  my  patience, 
madam.     I  was  born  a  French  subject,  but  not  in  France. 

Lady  (folding  her  arms  on  the  end  of  the  couch,  and 
leaning  on  them  with  a  marked  access  of  interest  in  him). 
You  were  not  born  a  subject  at  all,  I  think. 

Napoleon  (greatly  pleased,  starting  on  a  fresh 
march).     Eh?     Eh?     You  think  not. 

Lady.     I  am  sure  of  it. 

Napoleon.  Well,  well,  perhaps  not.  (The  self- 
complacency  of  his  assent  catches  his  own  ear.  He  stops 
short,  reddening.  Then,  composing  himself  into  a  sol- 
emn attitude,  modelled  on  the  heroes  of  classical  an- 
tiquity, he  takes  a  high  moral  tone.)  But  we  must  not 
live  for  ourselves  alone,  little  one.  Never  forget  that 
we  should  always  think  of  others,  and  work  for  others, 
and  lead  and  govern  them  for  their  own  good.  Self- 
sacrifice  is  the  foundation  of  all  true  nobility  of  char- 
acter. 

Lady  (again  relaxing  her  attitude  with  a  sigh).  Ah, 
it  is  easy  to  see  that  you  have  never  tried  it.  General. 


188  The  Man  of  Destiny 

Napoleon  {indignantly,  forgetting  all  about  Brutus 
and  Scipio).     What  do  you  mean  by  that  speech,  madam? 

Lady.  Haven't  you  noticed  that  people  always  exag- 
gerate the  value  of  the  things  they  haven't  got?  The 
poor  think  they  only  need  riches  to  be  quite  happy  and 
good.  Everybody  worships  truth,  purity,  unselfishness, 
for  the  same  reason — because  they  have  no  experience  of 
them.      Oh,   if   they   only   knew ! 

Napoleon  (with  angry  derision).  If  they  only 
knew!     Pray,  do  you  know? 

Lady  (with  her  arms  stretched  down  and  her  hands 
clasped  on  her  knees,  looking  straight  before  her).  Yes. 
I  had  the  misfortune  to  be  born  good.  (Glancing  up  at 
him  for  a  moment.)  And  it  is  a  misfortune,  I  can  tell 
you.  General.  I  really  am  truthful  and  unselfish  and 
all  the  rest  of  it;  and  it's  nothing  but  cowardice;  want 
of  character;  want  of  being  really,  strongly,  positively 
oneself. 

Napoleon.  Ha?  (Turning  to  her  quickly  with  « 
flash  of  strong  interest.) 

Lady  (earnestly,  with  rising  enthusiasm).  What  in 
the  secret  of  your  power  ?  Only  that  you  believe  in  your- 
self. You  can  fight  and  conquer  for  yourself  and  for 
nobody  else.  You  are  not  afraid  of  your  own  destiny. 
You  teach  us  what  we  all  might  be  if  we  had  the  will 
and  courage;  and  that  (suddenly  sinkitig  on  her  knees 
before  him)  is  why  we  all  begin  to  worship  you.  (She 
kisses  his  hands.) 

Napoleon  (embarrassed).  Tut,  tut!  Pray  rise, 
madam. 

Lady.  Do  not  refuse  my  homage:  it  is  your  right. 
You  will  be  emperor  of  France 

Napoleon    (hurriedly).     Take  care.     Treason! 

Lady  (insisting).  Yes,  emperor  of  France;  then  of 
Europe;  perhaps  of  the  world.  I  am  only  the  first 
subject  to  swear  allegiance.  (Again  kissing  his  hand.) 
My  Emperor ! 


The  Man  of  Destiny  189 

Napoleon  (overcome,  raising  her).  Pray,  pray.  No, 
no,  little  one :  this  is  folly.  Come :  be  calm,  be  calm. 
(Petting  her.)     There,  there,  my  girl. 

Lady  (struggling  with  happy  tears).  Yes,  I  know* 
it  is  an  impertinence  in  me  to  tell  you  what  you  must 
know  far  better  than  I  do.  But  you  are  not  angry  with 
me,  are  you.'' 

Napoleon.  Angry!  No,  no:  not  a  bit,  not  a  bit. 
Come:  you  are  a  very  clever  and  sensible  and  interesting 
little  woman.  (He  pats  her  on  the  cheek.)  Shall  we  be 
friends  ? 

Lady  (enraptured).  Your  friend!  You  will  let  me 
be  your  friend!  Oh!  (She  offers  him  both  her  hands 
with  a  radiant  smile.)  You  see:  I  shew  my  confidence  in 
you. 

Napoleon  (with  a  yell  of  rage,  his  eyes  flashing)^ 
What  I 

Lady.     What's   the   matter? 

Napoleon.  Shew  your  confidence  in  me !  So  that  I 
may  shew  my  confidence  in  you  in  return  by  letting  you 
give  me  the  slip  with  the  despatches,  eh.^  Ah,  Dalila, 
Dalila,  you  have  been  trying  your  tricks  on  me;  and  I 
have  been  as  great  a  gull  as  my  jackass  of  a  lieutenant. 
(He  advances  threateningly  on  her.)  Come:  the  de- 
spatches.    Quick:  I  am  not  to  be  trifled  with  now. 

Lady  (flying  round  the  couch).     General 

Napoleon.  Quick,  I  tell  you.  (He  passes  swiftly 
up  the  middle  of  the  room  and  intercepts  her  as  she  makes 
for  the  vineyard.) 

Lady  (at  bay,  confronting  him).  You  daje  address 
me  in  that  tone. 

Napoleon.     Dare! 

Lady.      Yes,  dare.     Who  are  you  that  you  should  pre- 
sume  to    speak   to    me    in   that   coarse    way }      Oh,    the  • 
vile,  vulgar  Corsican  adventurer  comes  out  in  you  very 
easily. 

Napoleon   (beside  himself).     You  she  devil!      (Sav~ 


190  The  Man  of  Destiny 

agely.)  Once  more^  and  only  once,  will  you  give  me  those 
papers  or  shall  I  tear  them  from  you — by  force? 

Lady  (letting  her  hands  fall).  Tear  them  from  me 
— by  force!  (As  he  glares  at  her  like  a  tiger  about  to 
spring,  she  crosses  her  arms  on  her  breast  in  the  attitude 
of  a  martyr.  The  gesture  and  pose  instantly  awaken  his 
theatrical  instinct:  he  forgets  his  rage  in  the  desire  to 
shew  her  that  in  acting,  too,  she  has  met  her  match.  He 
keeps  her  a  moment  in  suspense;  then  suddenly  clears  up 
his  countenance;  puts  his  hands  behind  him  with  provok- 
ing coolness;  looks  at  her  up  and  down  a  couple  of  times; 
takes  a  pinch  of  snuff ;  wipes  his  fingers  carefully  and 
puts  up  his  handkerchief ,  her  heroic  pose  becoming  more 
and  more  ridiculous  all  the  time.) 

Napoleon  (at  last).     Well? 

Lady  (disconcerted,  but  with  her  arms  still  crossed 
devotedly).     Well:  what  are  you  going  to  do? 

Napoleon,      Spoil  your  attitude. 

Lady.  You  brute!  (Abandoning  the  attitude,  she 
comes  to  the  end  of  the  couch,  where  she  turns  with  her 
hack  to  it,  leaning  against  it  and  facing  him  with  her 
hands  behind  her.) 

Napoleon.  Ah,  that's  better.  Now  listen  to  me.  I 
like  you.     What's  more,  I  value  your  respect. 

Lady.     You  value  what  you  have  not  got,  then. 

Napoleon.  I  shall  have  it  presently.  Now  attend 
to  me.  Suppose  I  were  to  allow  mj'self  to  be  abashed 
by  the  respect  due  to  your  sex,  your  beauty,  your  heroism 
and  all  the  rest  of  it?  Suppose  I,  with  nothing  but  such 
sentimental  stuff  to  stand  between  these  muscles  of  mine 
and  those  papers  which  you  have  about  you,  and  which 
I  want  and  mean  to  have :  suppose  I,  with  the  prize  with- 
in my  grasp,  were  to  falter  and  sneak  away  with  my 
hands  emptj^;  or,  what  would  be  worse,  cover  up  my 
weakness  by  playing  the  magnanimous  hero,  and  spar- 
ing you  the  violence  I  dared  not  use,  would  you  not  de- 
spise me  from  the  depths  of  your  woman's  soul?     Would 


The  Man  of  Destiny  191 

any  woman  be  such  a  fool?  Well,  Bonaparte  can  rise  to 
the  situation  and  act  like  a  woman  when  it  is  necessary. 
Do  you  understand? 

The  lady,  without  speaking,  stands  upright,  and  takes 
a  packet  of  papers  from  her  bosom.  For  a  moment  she 
has  an  intense  impulse  to  dash  them  in  his  face.  But  her 
good  breeding  cuts  her  off  from  any  vulgar  method  of 
relief.  She  hands  them  to  him  politely,  only  averting  her 
head.  The  moment  he  takes  them,  she  hurries  across 
to  the  other  side  of  the  room;  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands;  and  sits  down,  with  her  body  turned  away  to  the 
back  of  the  chair. 

Napoleon  (gloating  over  the  papers).  Aha!  That's 
right.  That's  right.  (Before  opening  them  he  looks  at 
her  and  says)  Excuse  me.  (He  sees  that  she  is  hiding 
her  face.)  Very  angry  with  me,  eh?  (He  unties  the 
packet,  the  seal  of  which  is  already  broken,  and  puts  it 
on  the  table  to  examine  its  contents.) 

Lady  (quietly,  taking  down  her  hands  and  shewing 
that  she  is  not  crying,  but  only  thinking).  No.  You 
were  right.     But  I  am  sorry  for  you. 

Napoleon  (pausing  in  the  act  of  taking  the  upper- 
most paper  from  the  packet).     Sorry  for  me!    Why? 

Lady.     I  am  going  to  see  you  lose  your  honor. 

Napoleon.  Ilm!  Nothing  worse  than  that?  (He 
takes  up  the  paper.) 

Lady.     And   your   happiness. 

Napoleon.  Happiness,  little  woman,  is  the  most  te- 
dious thing  in  the  world  to  me.  Should  I  be  what  I  am 
if  I  cared  for  happiness  ?     Anything  else  ? 

Lady.  Nothing —  (He  interrupts  her  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  satisfaction.  She  proceeds  quietly)  except 
that  you  will  cut  a  very  foolish  figure  in  the  eyes  of 
France. 

Napoleon  (quickly).  What?  (The  hand  holding 
the  paper  involuntarily  drops.  The  lady  looks  at  him. 
enigmatically  in  tranquil  silence.     He  throws  the  letter 


192  The  Man  of  Destiny 

down  and  breaks  out  into  a  torrent  of  scolding.^  What 
do  you  mean?  Eh?  Are  you  at  your  tricks  again?  Do 
you  think  I  don't  know  what  these  papers  contain?  I'll 
tell  you.  First,  my  information  as  to  Beaulieu's  re 
treat.  There  are  only  two  things  he  can  do — leather- 
brained  idiot  that  he  is ! — shut  himself  up  in  Mantua  or 
violate  the  neutrality  of  Venice  by  taking  Peschiera. 
You  are  one  of  old  Leatherbrain's  spies:  he  has  dis- 
covered that  he  has  been  betrayed,  and  has  sent  you 
to  intercept  the  information  at  all  hazards — as  if  that 
could  save  him  from  me,  the  old  fool!  The  other  pa- 
pers are  only  my  usual  correspondence  from  Paris,  of 
whicli   you   know  nothing. 

Lady  {projnpt  and  businesslike).  General:  let  us 
make  a  fair  division.  Take  the  information  your  spies 
have  sent  you  about  the  Austrian  army;  and  give  me  the 
Paris  correspondence.     That  will  content  me. 

Napoleon  (his  breath  taken  away  by  the  coolness  of 
the  proposal).  A  fair  di —  (He  gasps.)  It  seems  to 
me,  madame,  that  you  have  come  to  regard  my  letters  as 
your  own  property,  of  which  I  am  trying  to  rob  you. 

Lady  (^earnestly).  No:  on  my  honor  I  ask  for  no 
letter  of  yours — not  a  word  that  has  been  written  by  you 
or  to  you.  That  packet  contains  a  stolen  letter:  a  letter 
written  by  a  woman  to  a  man — a  man  not  her  husband — 
a  letter  that  means  disgrace,  infamy 

Napoleon.     A  love  letter? 

Lady  (bitter-sweetly).  What  else  but  a  love  letter 
could  stir  up  so  much  hate? 

Napoleon.  Why  is  it  sent  to  me?  To  put  the  hus- 
band in  my  power,  eh? 

Lady.  No,  no:  it  can  be  of  no  use  to  you:  I  swear 
that  it  will  cost  you  nothing  to  give  it  to  me.  It  has 
been  sent  to  you  out  of  sheer  malice — solely  to  injure  the 
woman  who  wrote  it. 

Napoleon.  Then  why  not  send  it  to  her  husband  in- 
stead of  to  me? 


The  Man  of  Destiny  193 

Lady  (completely  taken  aback).  Oh!  {Sinking  back 
into  the  chair.)     I — I  don't  know.     {She  breaks  down.) 

Napoleon.  Aha !  I  thought  so :  a  little  romance  to 
get  the  papers  back.  (He  throws  the  packet  on  the  table 
and  confronts  her  with  cynical  goodhumor.)  Per  Bacco, 
little  woman,  I  can't  help  admiring  you.  If  I  could  lie 
like  that,  it  would  save  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

Lady  (wringing  her  hands).  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  really 
had  told  you  some  lie !  You  would  have  believed  me  then. 
The  truth  is  the  one  thing  that  nobody  will  believe. 

Napoleon  (with  coarse  familiarity,  treating  her  as  if 
she  were  a  vivandiere).  Capital!  Capital!  (He  puts 
his  hands  behind  him  on  the  table,  and  lifts  himself  on 
to  it,  sitting  with  his  arms  akimbo  and  his  legs  wide 
apart.)  Come:  I  am  a  true  Corsican  in  my  love  for 
stories.  But  I  could  tell  them  better  than  you  if  I  set 
my  mind  to  it.  Next  time  you  are  asked  why  a  letter 
compromising  a  wife  should  not  be  sent  to  her  husband, 
answer  simply  that  the  husband  would  not  read  it.  Do 
you  suppose,  little  innocent,  that  a  man  wants  to  be  com- 
pelled by  public  opinion  to  make  a  scene,  to  fight  a  duel, 
to  break  up  his  household,  to  injure  his  career  by  a  scan- 
dal, when  he  can  avoid  it  all  by  taking  care  not  to  know  ? 

Lady  (revolted).  Suppose  that  packet  contained  a 
letter  about  your  own  wife.'' 

Napoleon  (offended,  coming  off  the  table).  You  are 
impertinent,  madame. 

Lady  (humbly).  I  beg  your  pardon.  Caesar's  wife 
is  above  suspicion. 

Napoleon  (with  a  deliberate  assumption  of  superior- 
ity). You  have  committed  an  indiscretion.  I  pardon 
you.  In  future,  do  not  permit  yourself  to  introduce  real 
persons  in  your  romances. 

Lady  (politely  ignoring  a  speech  which  is  to  her  only 
a  breach  of  good  manners,  and  rising  to  move  towards  the 
table).  General:  there  really  is  a  woman's  letter  there. 
(Pointing  to  the  packet.)     Give  it  to  me. 


194  The  Man  of  Destiny 

Napoleon  (with  brute  conciseness,  moving  so  as  to 
prevent  her  getting  too  near  the  letters).     Why? 

Lady.  She  is  an  old  friend:  we  were  at  school  to- 
gether. She  has  written  to  me  imploring  me  to  prevent 
the  letter  falling  into  your  hands. 

Napoleon.     Why  has  it  been  sent  to  me? 

Lady.     Because  it  compromises  the  director  Barras. 

Napoleon  {frowning,  evidently  startled).  Barras! 
(Haughtily.)  Take  care,  madame.  The  director  Barras 
is  my  attached  personal  friend. 

Lady  {nodding  placidly).  Yes.  You  became  friends 
through  your  wife. 

Napoleon.  Again!  Have  I  not  forbidden  you  to 
speak  of  my  wife?  {She  keeps  looking  curiously  at  him, 
taking  no  account  of  the  rebuke.  More  and  more  ir- 
ritated, he  drops  his  haughty  manner,  of  which  he  is 
himself  somewhat  impatient,  and  says  suspiciously ,  lower- 
ing his  voice)  Who  is  this  woman  with  whom  you  sym- 
pathize so  deeply? 

Lady.     Oh,  General !     How  could  I  tell  you  that  ? 

Napoleon  {ill-humoredly,  beginning  to  walk  about 
again  in  angry  perplexity).  Ay,  ay:  stand  by  one  an- 
other.    You  are  all  the  same,  you  women. 

Lady  {indignantly).  We  are  not  all  the  same,  any 
more  than  you  are.  Do  you  think  that  if  I  loved  another 
man,  I  should  pretend  to  go  on  loving  my  husband,  or 
be  afraid  to  tell  him  or  all  the  world?  But  this  woman 
is  not  made  that  way.  She  governs  men  by  cheating 
them;  and  {with  disdain)  they  like  it,  and  let  her  govern 
them.      {She  sits  down  again,  with  her  bark  to  him.) 

Napoleon  {not  attending  to  her).  Barras,  Barras! 
{Turning  very  threateningly  to  her,  his  face  darkening.) 
Take  care,  take  care :  do  you  hear  ?    You  may  go  too  far. 

Lady  {innocently  turning  her  face  to  him).  What's 
the  matter? 

Napoleon.  What  are  you  hinting  at?  Who  is  this 
woman  ? 


The  Man  of  Destiny  195 

Lady  (meeting  his  angry  searching  gaze  with  tranquil 
indifference  as  she  sits  looking  up  at  him  with  her  right 
arm  resting  lightly  along  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  one 
knee  crossed  over  the  other).  A  vain,  silly,  extravagant 
creature,  with  a  very  able  and  ambitious  husband  who 
knows  her  through  and  through — knows  that  she  has  lied 
to  him  about  her  age,  her  income,  her  social  position,  about 
everything  that  silly  women  lie  about — knows  that  she  is 
incapable  of  fidelity  to  any  principle  or  any  person;  and 
yet  could  not  help  loving  her — could  not  help  his  man's 
instinct  to  make  use  of  her  for  his  own  advancement  with 
Barras. 

Napoleon  (in  a  stealthy,  coldly  furious  whisper). 
This  is  your  revenge,  you  she  cat,  for  having  had  to  give 
me  the  letters. 

Lady.  Nonsense !  Or  do  you  mean  that  you  are  that 
sort  of  man? 

Napoleon  (exasperated,  clasps  his  hands  behind  him, 
his  fingers  twitching,  and  says,  as  he  walks  irritably 
away  from  her  to  the  fireplace).  This  woman  will 
drive  me  out  of  my  senses.     (To  her.)     Begone. 

Lady  (seated  immovably).     Not  without  that  letter. 

Napoleon.  Begone,  I  tell  you.  (Walking  from  the 
fireplace  to  the  vineyard  and  back  to  the  table.)  You 
shall  have  no  letter.  I  don't  like  you.  You're  a  detest- 
able woman,  and  as  ugly  as  Satan.  I  don't  choose  to  be 
pestered  by  strange  women.  Be  off.  (He  turns  his 
back  on  her.  In  quiet  amusement,  she  leans  her  cheek 
on  her  hand  and  laughs  at  him.  He  turns  again,  angrily 
mocking  her.)     Ha!  ha!  ha!    What  are  you  laughing  at.^* 

Lady.  At  you.  General.  I  have  often  seen  persons 
of  your  sex  getting  into  a  pet  and  behaving  like  children ; 
but  I  never  saw  a  really  great  man  do  it  before. 

Napoleon  (brutally,  flinging  the  words  in  her  face). 
Pooh:  flattery!  flattery!  coarse,  impudent  flattery! 

Lady  (springing  up  with  a  bright  flush  in  her  cheeks). 
Oh,  you  are  too  bad.     Keep  your  letters.    Read  the  story 


196  The  Man  of  Destiny 

of  your  own  dishonor  in  them;  and  much  good  may  they 
do  you.  Good-bye.  {She  goes  indignantly  towards  the 
inner  door.) 

Napoleon.  My  own — !  Stop.  Come  back.  Come 
back,  I  order  you.  (She  proudly  disregards  his  savagely 
peremptory  tone  and  continues  on  her  way  to  the  door. 
He  rushes  at  her;  seises  her  by  the  wrist;  and  drags 
her  back.)  Now,  what  do  you  mean.''  Explain.  Ex- 
plain, I  tell  you,  or —  (^Threatening  her.  She  looks  at 
him  with  unflinching  defiance.)  Rrrr!  you  obstinate 
devil,  you.     Why  can't  you  answer  a  civil  question.'' 

Lady  (^deeply  offended  by  his  violence).  Why  do  you 
ask  me?     You  have  the  explanation. 

Napoleon.     Where.'' 

Lady  (pointing  to  the  letters  on  the  table).  There. 
You  have  only  to  read  it.  (He  snatches  the  packet  up; 
hesitates;  looks  at  her  suspiciously ;  and  throws  it  down 
again. ) 

Napoleon.  You  seem  to  have  forgotten  your  solici- 
tude for  the  honor  of  your  old  friend. 

Lady.  She  runs  no  risk  now:  she  does  not  quite  un- 
derstand her  husband. 

Napoleon.  I  am  to  read  the  letter,  then?  (He 
stretches  out  his  hand  as  if  to  take  up  the  packet  again, 
with  his  eye  on  her.) 

Lady.  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  very  well  avoid  doing 
so  now.  (He  instantly  withdraws  his  hand.)  Oh,  don't 
be  afraid.     You  will  find  many  interesting  things  in  it. 

Napoleon.      For  instance? 

Lady.  For  instance,  a  duel — with  Barras,  a  domestic 
scene,  a  broken  household,  a  public  scandal,  a  checked 
career,  all  sorts  of  things. 

Napoleon.  Hm !  (He  looks  at  her;  takes  up  the 
packet  and  looks  at  it,  pursing  his  lips  and  balancing  it 
in  his  hand;  looks  at  her  again;  passes  the  packet  into 
his  left  hand  and  puts  it  behind  his  back,  raising  his  right 
to  scratch  the  back  of  his  head  as  he  turns  and  goes  up 


The  Man  of  Destiny  197 

to  the  edge  of  the  vineyard,  where  he  stands  for  a  mo- 
ment looking  out  into  the  vines,  deep  in  thought.  The 
Lady  watches  him  in  silence,  somewhat  slightingly.  Sud- 
denly he  turns  and  comes  hack  again,  full  of  force  and 
decision.^  I  grant  your  request,  madame.  Your  cour- 
age and  resolution  deserve  to  succeed.  Take  the  letters 
for  which  you  have  fought  so  well ;  and  remember  hence- 
forth that  you  found  the  vile,  vulgar  Corsican  adventurer 
as  generous  to  the  vanquished  after  the  battle  as  he  was 
resolute  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  before  it.  {He  offers 
her  the  packet.) 

Lady  {without  taking  it,  looking  hard  at  him).  What 
are  you  at  now,  I  wonder?  (He  dashes  the  packet  furi- 
ously to  the  floor.)  Aha!  I've  spoiled  that  attitude,  I 
think.     (She  makes  him  a  pretty  mocking  curtsey.) 

Napoleon  (snatching  it  up  again).  Will  you  take 
the  letters  and  begone  (advancing  and  thrusting  them 
upon  her)  ? 

Lady  (escaping  round  the  table).  No:  I  don't  want 
your  letters. 

Napoleon.  Ten  minutes  ago,  nothing  else  would  sat- 
isfy you. 

Lady  (keeping  the  table  carefully  between  them). 
Ten  minutes  ago  you  had  not  insulted  me  past  all  bear- 
ing. 

Napoleon.      I —  (swallowing  his  spleen)  I  apologize. 

Lady  (coolly).  Thanks.  (With  forced  politeness  he 
offers  her  the  packet  across  the  table.  She  retreats  a 
step  out  of  its  reach  and  says)  But  don't  you  want  to 
know  whether  the  Austrians  are  at  ISIantua  or  Peschiera.'' 

Napoleon.  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  can  con- 
quer my  enemies  without  the  aid  of  spies,  madame. 

Lady.     And  the  letter  !  don't  you  want  to  read  that  ? 

Napoleon.  You  have  said  that  it  is  not  addressed  to 
me.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  reading  other  people's 
letters.     (He  again  offers  the  packet.) 

Lady.     In  that  case  there  can  be  no  objection  to  your 


198  The  Man  of  Destiny 

keeping  it.  All  I  wanted  was  to  prevent  your  reading  it. 
{Cheerfully.)  Good  afternoon.  General.  {She  turns 
coolly  towards  the  inner  door.) 

Napoleon  {furiously  flinging  the  packet  on  the 
couch).  Heaven  grant  me  patience!  {He  goes  up  de- 
terminedly and  places  himself  before  the  door.)  Have 
you  any  sense  of  personal  danger?  Or  are  you  one  of 
those  women  who  like  to  be  beaten  black  and  blue? 

Lady.  Thank  you,  General:  I  have  no  doubt  the  sen- 
sation is  very  voluptuous ;  but  I  had  rather  not.  I 
simply  want  to  go  home :  that's  all.  I  was  wicked  enough 
to  steal  your  despatches;  but  you  have  got  them  back; 
and  3^ou  have  forgiven  me,  because  {delicately  reproduc- 
ing his  rhetorical  cadence)  you  are  as  generous  to  the 
vanquished  after  the  battle  as  you  are  resolute  in  the 
face  of  the  enemy  before  it.  Won't  you  say  good-bye  to 
me?     {She  offers  her  hand  sweetly.) 

Napoleon  {repulsing  the  advance  with  a  gesture  of 
concentrated  rage,  and  opening  the  door  to  call  fiercely). 
Giuseppe!  {Louder.)  Giuseppe!  {He  bangs  the  door 
to,  and  comes  to  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  lady  goes 
a  little  way  into  the  vineyard  to  avoid  him.) 

Giuseppe    {appearing  at  the  door).     Excellency? 

Napoleon.     Where  is  that  fool  ? 

Giuseppe.  He  has  had  a  good  dinner,  according  to 
your  instructions,  excelleiicy,  and  is  now  doing  me  the 
honor  to  gamble  with  me  to  pass  the  time. 

Napoleon.  Send  him  here.  Bring  him  here.  Come 
with  him.  {Giuseppe,  with  unruffled  readiness,  hurries 
off.  Napoleon  turns  curtly  to  the  lady,  saying)  I  must 
trouble  j^ou  to  remain  some  moments  longer,  madame. 
{He  comes  to  the  couch.  She  comes  from  the  vineyard 
down  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  to  the  sideboard,  and 
posts  herself  there,  leaning  against  it,  watching  him.  He 
takes  the  packet  frovi  the  couch  and  deliberately  buttons 
it  carefully  into  his  breast  pocket,  looking  at  her  mean- 
while with  an  expression  which  suggests  that  she  will 


The  Man  of  Destiny  199 

soon  find  out  the  meaning  of  his  proceedings,  and  will 
not  like  it.  Nothing  more  is  said  until  the  lieutenant 
arrives  followed  by  Giuseppe,  who  stands  modestly  in 
attendance  at  the  table.  The  lieutenant,  without  cap, 
sword  or  gloves,  and  much  improved  in  temper  and, 
spirits  by  his  meal,  chooses  the  Lady's  side  of  the  room, 
and  waits,  much  at  his  ease,  for  Napoleon  to  begin.) 

Napoleon.     Lieutenant. 

Lieutenant   {encouragingly).     General. 

Napoleon.  I  cannot  persuade  this  lady  to  give  me 
much  information;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
man  who  tricked  you  out  of  your  charge  was,  as  she 
admitted  to  you,  her  brother. 

Lieutenant  (triumphantly).  What  did  I  tell  you. 
General!     What  did  I  tell  you! 

Napoleon.  You  must  find  that  man.  Your  honor  is 
at  stake;  and  the  fate  of  the  campaign,  the  destiny  of 
France,  of  Europe,  of  humanity,  perhaps,  may  depend 
on  the  information  those  despatches  contain. 

Lieutenant.  Yes,  I  suppose  they  really  are  rather 
serious   (as  if  this  had  hardly  occurred  to  him  before). 

Napoleon  (energetically).  They  are  so  serious,  sir, 
that  if  you  do  not  recover  them,  you  will  be  degraded 
in  the  presence  of  your  regiment. 

Lieutenant.  Whew !  The  regiment  won't  like  that, 
I  can  tell  you. 

Napoleon.  Personally,  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I  would 
willingly  conceal  the  affair  if  it  were  possible.  But  I 
shall  be  called  to  account  for  not  acting  on  the  de- 
spatches. I  shall  have  to  prove  to  all  the  world  that 
I  never  received  them,  no  matter  what  the  consequences 
may  be  to  you.  I  am  sorry;  but  you  see  that  I  cannot 
help  myself. 

Lieutenant  (goodnaturedly).  Oh,  don't  take  it  to 
heart.  General :  it's  really  very  good  of  you.  Never  mind 
what  happens  to  me:  I  shall  scrape  through  somehow; 
and  we'll  beat  the  Austrians  for  you,  despatches  or  no 


200  The  Man  of  Destiny 

despatches.  I  hope  you  won't  insist  on  my  starting  off 
on  a  wild  goose  chase  after  the  fellow  now,  I  haven't  a 
notion  where  to  look  for  him. 

Giuseppe  {deferentially).  You  forget.  Lieutenant: 
he  has  your  horse. 

Lieutenant  (starting).  I  forgot  that,  (Reso- 
lutely.) I'll  go  after  him,  General:  I'll  find  that  horse  if 
it's  alive  anywhere  in  Italy.  And  I  shan't  forget  the 
despatches :  never  fear.  Giuseppe :  go  and  saddle  one 
of  those  mangy  old  post-horses  of  yours,  while  I  get  my 
cap  and  sword  and  things.  Quick  march.  Off  with  you 
(bustling  him). 

Giuseppe.  Instantly,  Lieutenant,  instantly.  (He 
disappears  in  the  vineyard,  where  the  light  is  now  red- 
dening with  the  sunset.) 

Lieutenant  (looking  about  him  on  his  way  to  the 
inner  door).  By  the  way.  General,  did  I  give  you  my 
sword  or  did  I  not.^  Oh,  I  remember  now.  (Fretfully.) 
It's  all  that  nonsense  about  putting  a  man  under  arrest: 
one  never  knows  where  to  find —  (Talks  himself  out  of 
the  room.) 

Lady  (still  at  the  sideboard).  What  does  all  this 
mean.  General? 

Napoleon.     He  will  not  find  your  brother. 

Lady.     Of  course  not.     There's  no  such  person. 

Napoleon.     The  despatches  will  be  irrecoverably  lost. 

Lady.     Nonsense!     They  are  inside  your  coat. 

Napoleon.  You  will  find  it  hard,  I  think,  to  prove 
that  wild  statement.  (The  Lady  starts.  He  adds,  with 
clinching  emphasis)     Those  papers  are  lost. 

Lady  (anxiously,  advancing  to  the  corner  of  the  table). 
And  that  unfortunate  young  man's  career  will  be  sacri- 
ficed. 

Napoleon.  His  career!  The  fellow  is  not  worth 
the  gunpowder  it  would  cost  to  have  him  shot.  (He  turns 
contemptuously  and  goes  to  the  hearth,  where  he  stands 
with  his  back  to  her.) 


The  Man  of  Destiny  201 

Lady  (wistfully).  You  are  very  hard.  Men  and 
women  are  nothing  to  you  but  things  to  be  used,  even  if 
they  are  broken  in  the  use. 

Napoleon  (turning  on  her).  Which  of  us  has  broken 
this  fellow — I  or  you?  Who  tricked  him  out  of  the 
despatches?     Did  you  think  of  his  career  then? 

Lady  (naively  concerned  about  him).  Oh,  I  never 
thought  of  that.  It  was  brutal  of  me ;  but  I  couldn't  help 
it,  could  I?  How  else  could  I  have  got  the  papers? 
(Supplicating.)  General:  you  will  save  him  from  dis- 
grace. 

Napoleon  (laughing  sourly).  Save  him  yourself, 
since  you  are  so  clever:  it  was  you  who  ruined  him. 
(With  savage  intensity.)     I  hate  a  bad  soldier. 

He  goes  out  determinedly  through  the  vineyard.  She 
follows  him  a  few  steps  with  an  appealing  gesture,  but 
is  interrupted  by  the  return  of  the  lieutenant,  gloved  and 
capped,  with  his  sword  on,  ready  for  the  road.  He  is 
crossing  to  the  outer  door  when  she  intercepts  him. 

Lady.     Lieutenant. 

Lieutenant  (importantly).  You  mustn't  delay  me, 
you  know.     Duty,  madame,  duty. 

Lady  (imploringly).  Oh,  sir,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  to  my  poor  brother? 

Lieutenant.     Are  you  very  fond  of  him? 

Lady.  I  should  die  if  anything  happened  to  him. 
You  must  spare  him.  (The  lieutenant  shakes  his  head 
gloomily.)  Yes,  yes:  you  must:  you  shall:  he  is  not 
fit  to  die.  Listen  to  me.  If  I  tell  you  where  to  find  him 
— if  I  undertake  to  place  him  in  your  hands  a  prisoner, 
to  be  delivered  up  by  you  to  General  Bonaparte — will 
you  promise  me  on  your  honor  as  an  officer  and  a  gentle- 
man not  to  fight  with  him  or  treat  him  unkindly  in  any 
way? 

Lieutenant.  But  suppose  he  attacks  me.  He  has 
my  pistols. 

Lady.     He  is  too  great  a  coward. 


202  The  Man  of  Destiny 

Lieutenant.  I  don't  feel  so  sure  about  that.  He's 
capable  of  anything. 

Lady.  If  he  attacks  you,  or  resists  you  in  any  way,  I 
release  you  from  your  promise. 

Lieutenant.  My  promise !  I  didn't  mean  to  prom- 
ise. Look  here:  you're  as  bad  as  he  is:  you've  taken  an 
advantage  of  me  through  the  better  side  of  my  nature. 
What  about  my  horse? 

Lady.  It  is  part  of  the  bargain  that  you  are  to  have 
your  horse  and  pistols  back. 

Lieutenant.      Honor  bright? 

Lady.     Honor  bright.     (She  ofers  her  hand.) 

Lieutenant  (taking  it  and  holding  it).  All  right: 
I'll  be  as  gentle  as  a  lamb  with  him.  His  sister's  a 
very  pretty  woman.      (He  attempts  to  kiss  her.) 

Lady  (slipping  away  from  him).  Oh,  Lieutenant! 
You  forget:  your  career  is  at  stake — the  destiny  of  Eu- 
rope— of  humanity. 

Lieutenant.  Oh,  bother  the  destiny  of  humanity. 
(Making  for  her.)     Only  a  kiss. 

Lady  (retreating  round  the  table).  Not  until  you 
have  regained  your  honor  as  an  officer.  Remember:  you 
have  not  captured  my  brother  yet. 

Lieutenant  (seductively).  You'll  tell  me  where  he 
is,  won't  you? 

Lady.  I  have  only  to  send  him  a  certain  signal;  and 
he  will  be  here  in  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Lieutenant.     He's  not  far  off,  then. 

Lady.  No:  quite  close.  Wait  here  for  him:  when  he 
gets  my  message  he  will  come  here  at  once  and  surrender 
himself  to  you.     You  understand? 

Lieutenant  (intellectually  overtaxed).  Well,  it's  a 
little  complicated;  but  I  daresay  it  will  be  all  right. 

Lady.  And  now,  whilst  you're  waiting,  don't  you 
think  you  had  better  make  terms  with  the  General? 

Lieutenant.  Oh,  look  here,  this  is  getting  fright- 
fully complicated.     What  terms? 


The  INIan  of  Destiny  203 

Lady.  Make  him  promise  that  if  you  catch  my 
brother  he  will  consider  that  you  have  cleared  your  char- 
acter as  a  soldier.  He  will  promise  anything  you  ask  on 
that  condition. 

Lieutenant.  That's  not  a  bad  idea.  Thank  you:  I 
think  I'll  try  it. 

Lady.  Do.  And  mind,  above  all  things,  don't  let 
him  see  how  clever  you  are. 

Lieutenant.     I  understand.     He'd  be  jealous. 

Lady.  Don't  tell  him  anything  except  that  you  are 
resolved  to  capture  my  brother  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 
He  won't  believe  you.  Then  you  will  produce  my 
brother 

Lieutenant  (interrupting  as  he  masters  the  plot). 
And  have  the  laugh  at  him !  I  say :  what  a  clever  little 
woman  you  are!     (Shouting.)     Giuseppe! 

Lady.  Sh  !  Not  a  word  to  Giuseppe  about  me.  (She 
puts  her  finger  on  her  lips.  He  does  the  same.  They 
looJc  at  one  another  warningly.  Then,  with  a  ravishing 
smile,  she  changes  the  gesture  into  wafting  him  a  kiss, 
and  runs  out  through  the  inner  door.  Electrified,  he 
bursts  into  a  volley  of  chuckles.  Giuseppe  comes  back 
by  the  outer  door.) 

Giuseppe.     The  horse  is  ready.  Lieutenant. 

Lieutenant.  I'm  not  going  just  yet.  Go  and  find 
the  General,  and  tell  him  I  want  to  speak  to  him. 

Giuseppe  (shaking  his  head).  That  will  never  do. 
Lieutenant. 

Lieutenant.     "UHiy  not? 

Giuseppe.  In  this  wicked  world  a  general  may  send 
for  a  lieutenant;  but  a  lieutenant  must  not  send  for  a 
general. 

Lieutenant.  Oh,  you  think  he  wouldn't  like  it. 
Well,  perhaps  you're  right:  one  has  to  be  awfully 
particular  about  that  sort  of  thing  now  we've  got  a 
republic. 

Napoleon  reappears,  advancing  from  the  vineyard,  but- 


204  The  Man  of  Destiny 

toning  the  breast  of  his  coat,  pale  and  full  of  gnawing 
thoughts. 

Giuseppe  (unconscious  of  Napoleon's  approach). 
Quite  true,  Lieutenant,  quite  true.  You  are  all  like  inn- 
keepers now  in  France:  you  have  to  be  polite  to  every- 
body. 

Napoleon  (putting  his  hand  on  Giuseppe's  shoulder). 
And  that  destroys  the  whole  value  of  politeness,  eh.? 

Lieutenant.  The  very  man  I  wanted!  See  here, 
General:  suppose  I  catch  that  fellow  for  you! 

Napoleon  (with  ironical  gravity).  You  will  not 
catch  him,  my  friend. 

Lieutenant.  Aha!  you  think  so;  but  you'll  see. 
Just  wait.  Only,  if  I  do  catch  him  and  hand  him  over 
to  you,  will  you  cry  quits.''  Will  you  drop  all  this  about 
degrading  me  in  tlie  presence  of  my  regiment?  Not  that 
/  mind,  you  know;  but  still  no  regiment  likes  to  have 
all  the  other  regiments  laughing  at  it. 

Napoleon  (a  cold  ray  of  htimor  striking  pallidly 
across  his  gloom).  What  shall  we  do  with  this  officer, 
Giuseppe.''     Everything  he  says  is  wrong. 

Giuseppe  (promptly).  Make  him  a  general,  excel- 
lency; and  then  everything  he  says  will  be  right. 

Lieutenant  (crorving).  Haw-aw!  (He  throrvs 
himself  ecstatically  on  the  couch  to  enjoy  the  joke.) 

Napoleon  (laughing  and  pinching  Giuseppe's  ear). 
You  are  thrown  away  in  this  inn,  Giuseppe.  (He  sits 
dorvn  and  places  Giuseppe  before  him  like  a  school- 
master Tvith  a  pupil.)  Shall  I  take  you  away  with  me 
and  make  a  man  of  you? 

Giuseppe  (shaking  his  head  rapidly  and  repeatedly). 
No,  thank  you.  General.  All  my  life  long  people  have 
wanted  to  make  a  man  of  me.  When  I  was  a  boy,  our 
good  priest  wanted  to  make  a  man  of  me  by  teaching  me 
to  read  and  write.  Then  the  organist  at  Melegnano 
wanted  to  make  a  man  of  me  by  teaching  me  to  read 
music.     The  recruiting  sergeant  would  have  made  a  man 


The  Man  of  Destiny  205 

of  me  if  I  had  been  a  few  inches  taller.  But  it  always 
meant  making  me  work ;  and  I  am  too  lazy  for  that,  thank 
Heaven !  So  I  taught  myself  to  cook  and  became  an 
innkeeper ;  and  now  I  keep  servants  to  do  the  work, 
and  have  nothing  to  do  myself  except  talk,  which  suits 
me  perfectly. 

Napoleon  (looking  at  him  thoughtfully).  You  are 
satisfied .'' 

Giuseppe  (with  cheerful  conviction).  Quite,  excel- 
lency. 

Napoleon.  And  you  have  no  devouring  devil  inside 
you  who  must  be  fed  with  action  and  victory — gorged 
with  them  night  and  day — who  makes  you  pay,  with  the 
sweat  of  your  brain  and  body,  weeks  of  Herculean  toil 
for  ten  minutes  of  enjoyment — who  is  at  once  your  slave 
and  your  tyrant,  your  genius  and  your  doom — who  brings 
you  a  crown  in  one  hand  and  the  oar  of  a  galley  slave 
in  the  other — who  shews  you  all  the  kingdoms  of  the 
earth  and  offers  to  make  you  their  master  on  condition 
that  you  become  their  servant ! — have  you  nothing  of  that 
in  you? 

Giuseppe.  Nothing  of  it!  Oh,  I  assure  you,  excel- 
lency, my  devouring  devil  is  far  worse  than  that.  He 
offers  me  no  crowns  and  kingdoms:  he  expects  to  get 
everything  for  nothing — sausages,  omelettes,  grapes, 
cheese,  polenta,  wine — three  times  a  day,  excellency: 
nothing  less  will  content  him. 

Lieutenant.  Come,  drop  it,  Giuseppe:  you're  mak- 
ing me  feel  hungry  again. 

(Giuseppe,  with  an  apologetic  shrug,  retires  from  the 
conversation,  and  busies  himself  at  the  table,  dusting  it, 
setting  the  map  straight,  and  replacing  Napoleon's  chair, 
which  the  lady  has  pushed  back.) 

Napoleon  (turning  to  the  lieutenant  with  sardonic 
ceremony).  I  hope  /  have  not  been  making  you  feel 
ambitious. 

Lieutenant.     Not  at  all:  I  don't  fly  so  high.     Be- 


206  The  Man  of  Destiny 

sides:  I'm  better  as  I  am:  men  like  me  are  wanted  in  the 
army  just  now.  The  fact  is,  the  Revolution  was  all  very 
well  for  civilians ;  but  it  won't  work  in  the  army.  You 
know  what  soldiers  are,  General:  they  will  have  men  of 
family  for  their  officers.  A  subaltern  must  be  a  gentle- 
man, because  he's  so  much  in  contact  with  the  men.  But 
a  general,  or  even  a  colonel,  may  be  any  sort  of  riff-raff 
if  he  understands  the  shop  well  enough.  A  lieutenant  is 
a  gentleman:  all  the  rest  is  chance.  Why,  who  do  you 
suppose  won  the  battle  of  Lodi.''  I'll  tell  you.  My 
horse  did. 

Napoleon  (rising).  Your  folly  is  carrying  you  too 
far,  sir.     Take  care. 

Lieutenant.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  You  remember  all 
that  red-hot  cannonade  across  the  river:  the  Austrians 
blazing  away  at  you  to  keep  you  from  crossing,  and  you 
blazing  away  at  them  to  keep  them  from  setting  the 
bridge  on  fire?     Did  you  notice  where  I  was  then? 

Napoleon  (with  menacing  politeness).  I  am  sorry. 
I  am  afraid  I  was  rather  occupied  at  the  moment. 

Giuseppe  (trith  eager  admiration).  They  say  you 
jumped  off  your  horse  and  worked  the  big  guns  with  your 
own  hands.  General. 

Lieutenant.  That  was  a  mistake:  an  officer  should 
never  let  himself  down  to  the  level  of  his  men.  (Na- 
poleon looks  at  him  dangerously,  and  begins  to  rvalk 
tigerishly  to  and  fro.)  But  you  might  have  been  firing 
away  at  the  Austrians  still,  if  we  cavalry  fellows  hadn't 
found  the  ford  and  got  across  and  turned  old  Beau- 
lieu's  flank  for  you.  You  know  you  daren't  have  given 
the  order  to  charge  the  bridge  if  you  hadn't  seen  us 
on  the  other  side.  Consequently,  I  say  that  whoever 
found  that  ford  won  the  battle  of  Lodi.  Well,  who 
found  it?  I  was  the  first  man  to  cross:  and  I  know.  It 
was  my  horse  that  found  it.  (With  conviction,  as  he 
rises  from  the  couch.)  That  horse  is  the  true  conqueror 
of  the  Austrians. 


The  Man  of  Destiny  207 

Napoleon  (passionately').  You  idiot:  I'll  have  you 
shot  for  losing  those  despatches:  I'll  have  you  blown  from 
the  mouth  of  a  cannon:  nothing  less  could  make  any 
impression  on  you.  (Baying  at  him.)  Do  you  hear? 
Do  you  understand? 

A  French  officer  enters  unobserved,  carrying  his 
sheathed  sabre  in  his  hand. 

Lieutenant  (unabashed).  If  I  don't  capture  him. 
General.     Remember  the  if. 

Napoleon.     If!     If!!     Ass:  there  is  no  such  man. 

The  Officer  (suddenly  stepping  between  them  and 
speaking  in  the  unmistakable  voice  of  the  Strange  Lady). 
Lieutenant:  I  am  your  prisoner.  (She  offers  him  her 
sabre.  They  are  amazed.  Napoleon  gazes  at  her  for  a 
moment  thunderstruck ;  then  seizes  her  by  the  wrist  and 
drags  her  roughly  to  him,  looking  closely  and  fiercely  at 
her  to  satisfy  himself  as  to  her  identity;  for  it  now  be- 
gins to  darken  rapidly  into  night,  the  red  glow  over  the 
vineyard  giving  way  to  clear  starlight.) 

Napoleon.  Pah !  (He  flings  her  hand  away  with 
an  exclamation  of  disgust,  and  turns  his  back  on  her 
with  his  hand  in  his  breast  and  his  brow  lowering.) 

Lieutenant  (triumphantly,  taking  the  sabre).  No 
such  man:  eh.  General?  (To  the  Lady.)  I  say:  where's 
my  horse? 

Lady.  Safe  at  Borghetto,  waiting  for  you.  Lieu- 
tenant. 

Napoleon  (turning  on  them).  Where  are  the  de- 
spatches ? 

Lady.  You  would  never  guess.  They  are  in  the  most 
unlikely  place  in  the  world.  Did  you  meet  my  sister 
here,  any  of  you? 

Lieutenant.  Yes.  Very  nice  woman.  She's  won- 
derfully like  you;  but  of  course  she's  better  looking. 

Lady  (mysteriously).  Well,  do  you  know  that  she  is 
a  witch? 

Giuseppe   (running  down  to  them  in  terror,  crossing 


208  The  JNIan  of  Destiny 

himself).  Oh,  no,  no,  no.  It  is  not  safe  to  jest  about 
such  things.     I  cannot  have  it  in  my  house,  excellency. 

Lieutenant.  Yes,  drop  it.  You're  my  prisoner,  you 
know.  Of  course  I  don't  believe  in  any  such  rubbish; 
but  still  it's  not  a  proper  subject  for  joking. 

Lady.  But  this  is  very  serious.  My  sister  has  be- 
witched the  General.  (Giuseppe  and  the  Lieutenant 
recoil  from  Napoleon.)  General:  open  your  coat:  you 
will  find  the  despatches  in  the  breast  of  it.  (She  puts 
her  hand  quichhj  on  his  breast.)  Yes:  there  they  are: 
I  can  feel  them.  Eh?  (She  looks  up  into  his  face  half 
coaxingly,  half  mockingly.)  Will  you  allow  me,  Gen- 
eral.'' (She  takes  a  button  as  if  to  unbutton  his  coat, 
and  pauses  for  permission.) 

Napoleon  (inscrutably).     If  you  dare. 

Lady.  Thank  you.  (She  opens  his  coat  and  takes 
out  the  despatches.)  There!  (To  Giuseppe,  shewing 
him  the  despatches.)     See! 

Giuseppe  (flying  to  the  outer  door).  No,  in  heaven's 
name !     They're  bewitched. 

Lady  (turning  to  the  Lieutenant).  Here,  Lieutenant: 
you're  not  afraid  of  them. 

Lieutenant  (retreating).  Keep  off.  (Seising  the 
hilt  of  the  sabre.)     Keep  off,  I  tell  you. 

Lady  (to  Napoleon).  They  belong  to  you.  General. 
Take  them. 

Giuseppe.  Don't  touch  them,  excellency.  Have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  them. 

Lieutenant.     Be  careful.  General:  be  careful. 

Giuseppe.     Burn  them.     And  burn  the  witch,  too. 

Lady  (to  Napoleon).     Shall  I  burn  them? 

Napoleon  (thoughtfully).  Yes,  burn  them.  Giu- 
seppe: go  and  fetch  a  light. 

Giuseppe  (trembling  and  stammering).  Do  you 
mean  go  alone — in  the  dark — with  a  witch  in  the  house? 

Napoleon.  Psha !  You're  a  poltroon.  (To  the 
Lieutenant.)      Oblige  me  by   going.  Lieutenant. 


The  Man  of  Destiny  209 

Lieutenant  (remonstrating).  Oh,  I  say.  General! 
No,  look  here,  you  know:  nobody  can  say  I'm  a  coward 
after  Lodi.  But  to  ask  me  to  go  into  the  dark  by  myself 
without  a  candle  after  such  an  awful  conversation  is  a 
little  too  much.     How  would  3'ou  like  to  do  it  yourself  ? 

Napoleon  (irritably) .     You  refuse  to  obey  my  order? 

Lieutenant  (resolutely).  Yes,  I  do.  It's  not  rea- 
sonable. But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  If  Giuseppe 
goes,  I'll  go  with  him  and  protect  him. 

Napoleon  (to  Giuseppe).  There!  will  that  satisfy 
you.''     Be  off,  both  of  you. 

Giuseppe  (humbly,  his  lips  trembling).  W-willingly, 
your  excellency.  (He  goes  reluctantly  towards  the  inner 
door.)  Heaven  protect  me !  (To  the  lieutenant.)  After 
you.  Lieutenant. 

Lieutenant.  You'd  better  go  first:  I  don't  know  the 
way. 

Giuseppe.  You  can't  miss  it.  Besides  (imploringly, 
laying  his  hand  on  his  sleeve),  I  am  only  a  poor  inn- 
keeper; and  you  are  a  man  of  family. 

Lieutenant,  There's  something  in  that.  Here: 
you  needn't  be  in  such  a  fright.  Take  my  arm.  (Giu- 
seppe does  so.)  That's  the  way.  (They  go  out,  arm  in 
arm.  It  is  now  starry  tiight.  The  lady  throrvs  the  packet 
on  the  table  and  seats  herself  at  her  ease  on  the  couch 
enjoying  the  sensation  of  freedom  from  petticoats.) 

Lady.     Well,  General:  I've  beaten  you. 

Napoleon  (walking  about).  You  have  been  guilty  of 
indebcacy — of  unwomanliness.  Do  you  consider  that 
costume  a  proper  one  to  wear? 

Lady.     It  seems  to  me  much  the  same  as  yours. 

Napoleon.     Psha !     I  blush  for  you. 

Lady  (naively).  Yes:  soldiers  blush  so  easily!  (He 
growls  and  turns  away.  She  looks  mischievously  at  him, 
balancing  the  despatches  in  her  hand.)  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  read  these  before  they're  burnt.  General?  You 
must   be   dying   with   curiosity.      Take   a   peep.      (She 


210  The  Man  of  Destiny 

throws  the  packet  on  the  table,  and  turns  her  face  away 
from  it.)     I  won't  look. 

Napoleon.  I  have  no  curiosity  whatever,  madame. 
But  since  you  are  evidently  burning  to  read  them,  I 
give  you  leave  to  do  so. 

Lady.     Oh,  I've  read  them  already. 

Napoleon   (starting).     What! 

Lady.  I  read  them  the  first  thing  after  I  rode  away 
on  that  poor  lieutenant's  horse.  So  you  see  I  know 
what's  in  them;  and  you  don't. 

Napoleon.  Excuse  me:  I  read  them  when  I  was  out 
there  in  the  vineyard  ten  minutes  ago. 

Lady.  Oh!  (Jumping  up.)  Oh,  General:  I've  not 
beaten  you.  I  do  admire  you  so.  (He  laughs  and  pats 
her  cheek.)  This  time  really  and  truly  without  sham- 
ming, I  do  you  homage  (kissing  his  hand). 

Napoleon  (quickly  withdrawing  it).  Brr!  Don't  do 
that.     No  more  witchcraft. 

Lady.  I  want  to  say  something  to  you — only  you 
would  misunderstand  it. 

Napoleon.     Need  that  stop  you? 

Lady.  Well,  it  is  this.  I  adore  a  man  who  is  not 
afraid  to  be  mean  and  selfish. 

Napoleon  (indignantly).  I  am  neither  mean  nor 
selfish. 

Lady.  Oh,  you  don't  appreciate  yourself.  Besides, 
I  don't  really  mean  meanness  and  selfisluiess. 

Napoleon.  Thank  you.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
did. 

Lady.  Well,  of  course  I  do.  But  what  I  mean  is  a 
certain  strong  simplicity  about  you. 

Napoleon.     That's  better. 

Lady.  You  didn't  want  to  read  the  letters;  but  you 
were  curious  about  what  was  in  them.  So  you  went  into 
the  garden  and  read  them  when  no  one  was  looking,  and 
then  came  back  and  pretended  you  hadn't.  That's  the 
meanest  thing  I  ever  knew  any  man  do;  but  it  exactly 


The  Man  of  Destiny  211 

fulfilled  your  purpose;  and  so  you  weren't  a  bit  afraid  or 
ashamed  to  do  it. 

Napoleon  (abruptly).  Where  did  you  pick  up  all 
these  vulgar  scruples — this  (with  contemptuous  empha- 
sis) conscience  of  yours?  I  took  you  for  a  lady— an 
aristocrat.     Was  your  grandfather  a  shopkeeper,  pray? 

Lady.     No:  he  was  an  Englishman. 

Napoleon.  That  accounts  for  it.  The  English  are  a 
nation  of  shopkeepers.  Now  I  understand  why  you've 
beaten  me. 

Lady.  Oh,  I  haven't  beaten  you.  And  I'm  not  Eng- 
lish. 

Napoleon.  Yes,  you  are — English  to  the  backbone. 
Listen  to  me:  I  will  explain  the  English  to  you. 

Lady  (eagerly).  Do.  (JVith  a  lively  air  of  antici- 
pating an  intellectual  treat,  she  sits  down  on  the  couch 
and  composes  herself  to  listen  to  him.  Secure  of  his 
audience,  he  at  once  nerves  himself  for  a  performance. 
He  considers  a  little  before  he  begins;  so  as  to  fix  her 
attention  by  a  moment  of  suspense.  His  style  is  at  first 
modelled  on  Talma's  in  Corneille's  "  Cinna;  "  but  it  is 
somewhat  lost  in  the  darkness,  and  Talma  presently 
gives  way  to  Napoleon,  the  voice  coming  through  the 
gloom  with  startling  intensity.) 

Napoleon.  There  are  three  sorts  of  people  in  the 
world,  the  low  people,  the  middle  people,  and  the  high 
people.  The  low  people  and  the  high  people  are  alike 
in  one  thing:  they  have  no  scruples,  no  morality.  The 
low  are  beneath  morality,  the  high  above  it.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  either  of  them:  for  the  low  are  unscrupulous 
without  knowledge,  so  that  they  make  an  idol  of  me; 
whilst  the  high  are  unscrupulous  without  purpose,  so 
that  they  go  down  before  my  will.  Look  you:  I  shall 
go  over  all  the  mobs  and  all  the  courts  of  Europe  as  a 
plough  goes  over  a  field.  It  is  the  middle  people  who 
are  dangerous :  they  have  both  knowledge  and  purpose. 
But  they,  too,  have  their  weak  point.     They  are  full  of 


212  The  Man  of  Destiny 

scruples — chained  hand  and  foot  by  their  morality  and 
respectability. 

Lady.  Then  you  will  beat  the  English;  for  all  shop- 
keepers are  middle  people. 

Napoleon.  No,  because  the  English  are  a  race  apart. 
No  Englishman  is  too  low  to  have  scruples:  no  English- 
man is  high  enough  to  be  free  from  their  tyranny.  But 
every  Englishman  is  born  with  a  certain  miraculous 
power  that  makes  him  master  of  the  world.  When  he 
wants  a  thing,  he  never  tells  himself  that  he  wants  it. 
He  waits  patiently  until  there  comes  into  his  mind,  no 
one  knows  how,  a  burning  conviction  that  it  is  his  moral 
and  religious  duty  to  conquer  those  who  have  got  the 
thing  he  wants.  Then  he  becomes  irresistible.  Like  the 
aristocrat,  he  does  what  pleases  him  and  grabs  what  he 
wants:  like  the  shopkeeper,  he  pursues  his  purpose  with 
the  industry  and  steadfastness  that  come  from  strong 
religious  conviction  and  deep  sense  of  moral  responsibil- 
ity. He  is  never  at  a  loss  for  an  effective  moral  attitude. 
As  the  great  champion  of  freedom  and  national  inde- 
pendence, he  conquers  and  annexes  half  the  world,  and 
calls  it  Colonization.  When  he  wants  a  new  market  for 
his  adulterated  Manchester  goods,  he  sends  a  missionary 
to  teach  the  nativ^es  the  gospel  of  peace.  The  natives 
kill  the  missionary:  he  flies  to  arms  in  defence  of  Chris- 
tianity; fights  for  it;  conquers  for  it;  and  takes  the 
market  as  a  reward  from  heaven.  In  defence  of  his 
island  shores,  he  puts  a  chaplain  on  board  his  ship;  nails 
a  flag  with  a  cross  on  it  to  his  top-gallant  mast ;  and  sails 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  sinking,  burning  and  destroy- 
ing all  who  dispute  the  empire  of  the  seas  with  him.  He 
boasts  that  a  slave  is  free  the  moment  his  foot  touches 
British  soil;  and  he  sells  the  children  of  his  poor  at  six 
years  of  age  to  work  under  the  lash  in  his  factories  for 
sixteen  hours  a  day.  He  makes  two  revolutions,  and  then 
declares  war  on  our  one  in  the  name  of  law  and  order. 
There  is  nothing  so  bad  or  so  good  that  you  will  not  find 


The  Man  of  Destiny  213 

Englishmen  doing  it ;  but  you  will  never  find  an  English- 
man in  the  wrong.  He  does  everything  on  principle. 
He  fights  you  on  patriotic  principles ;  he  robs  you  on 
business  principles ;  he  enslaves  you  on  imperial  prin- 
ciples ;  he  bullies  you  on  manly  principles ;  he  supports 
his  king  on  loyal  principles,  and  cuts  off  his  king's  head 
on  republican  principles.  His  watchword  is  always 
duty;  and  he  never  forgets  that  the  nation  which  lets 
its  duty  get  on  the  opposite  side  to  its  interest  is 
lost.     He 

Lady.  W-w-w-w-w-wh !  Do  stop  a  moment.  I  want 
to  know  how  you  make  me  out  to  be  English  at  this  rate. 

Napoleon  {dropping  his  rhetorical  style).  It's  plain 
enough.  You  wanted  some  letters  that  belonged  to  me. 
You  have  spent  the  morning  in  stealing  them — yes,  steal- 
ing them,  by  highway  robbery.  And  you  have  spent  the 
afternoon  in  putting  me  in  the  wrong  about  them — in 
assuming  that  it  was  /  who  wanted  to  steal  your  letters 
— in  explaining  that  it  all  came  about  through  my  mean- 
ness and  selfishness,  and  your  goodness,  your  devotion, 
your  self-sacrifice.     That's  English. 

Lady.  Nonsense.  I  am  sure  I  am  not  a  bit  English. 
The  English  are  a  very  stupid  people. 

Napoleon.  Yes,  too  stupid  sometimes  to  know  when 
they're  beaten.  But  I  grant  that  your  brains  are  not 
English.  You  see,  though  your  grandfather  was  an 
Englishman,  your  grandmother  was — what?  A  French- 
woman ? 

Lady.     Oh,  no.     An  Irishwoman. 

Napoleon  (quickly).  Irish!  (Thoughtfully.)  Yes: 
I  forgot  the  Irish.  An  English  army  led  by  an  Irish 
general :  that  might  be  a  match  for  a  French  army  led 
by  an  Italian  general.  (He  pauses,  and  adds,  half 
jestingly,  half  moodily)  At  all  events,  you  have  beaten 
me;  and  what  beats  a  man  first  will  beat  him  last.  (He 
goes  meditatively  into  the  moonlit  vineyard  and  looks 
up.     She  steals  out  after  him.     She  ventures  to  rest  her 


214  The  INIan  of  Destiny 

hand  on  his  shoulder,  overcome  by  the  beauty  of  the 
night  and  emboldened  by  its  obscurity.^ 

Lady  (softly).     What  are  you  looking  at? 

Napoleon  {pointing  up).     My  star. 

Lady.     You  believe  in  that.^ 

Napoleon.  I  do.  {They  look  at  it  for  a  moment, 
she  leaning  a  little  on  his  shoulder.) 

Lady.  Do  you  linow  that  the  English  say  that  a  man's 
star  is  not  complete  without  a  woman's  garter? 

Napoleon  (scandalized — abruptly  shaking  her  off 
and  coming  back  into  the  room).  Pah!  The  hypocrites! 
If  the  French  said  that^  how  they  would  hold  up  their 
hands  in  pious  horror !  (He  goes  to  the  inner  door  and 
holds  it  open,  shouting^  Hallo !  Giuseppe.  Where's 
that  light,  man.  (He  comes  between  the  table  and  the 
sideboard,  and  moves  the  chair  to  the  table,  beside  his 
own.)  We  have  still  to  burn  the  letter.  (He  takes  up 
the  packet.  Giuseppe  comes  back,  pale  and  still  trem- 
bling, carrying  a  branched  candlestick  with  a  couple  of 
candles  alight,  in  one  hand,  and  a  broad  snuffers  tray 
in  the  other.) 

Giuseppe  (piteously,  as  he  places  the  light  on  the 
table).  Excellency:  what  were  you  looking  up  at  just 
now — out  there?  (He  points  across  his  shoulder  to  the 
vineyard,  but  is  afraid  to  look  round.) 

Napoleon  (unfolding  the  packet).  What  is  that  to 
you? 

Giuseppe  (stammering).  Because  the  witch  is  gone — 
vanished ;  and  no  one  saw  her  go  out. 

Lady  (coming  behind  him  from  the  vineyard).  We 
were  watching  her  riding  up  to  the  moon  on  your  broom- 
stick, Giuseppe.     You  will  never  see  her  again. 

Giuseppe.  Gesu  Maria !  (He  crosses  himself  and 
hurries  out.) 

Napoleon  (throwing  down  the  letters  in  a  heap  on 
the  table).  Now.  (He  sits  down  at  the  table  in  the 
chair  which  he  has  just  placed.^ 


The  Man  of  Destiny  215 

Lady.  Yes ;  but  you  know  you  have  th  e  letter  in  your 
pocket.  {^He  smiles;  takes  a  letter  from  his  pocket;  and 
tosses  it  on  the  top  of  the  heap.  She  holds  it  up  and 
looks  at  him,  saying)     About  Caesar's  wife. 

Napoleon.     Csesar's  wife  is  above  suspicion.     Burn  it. 

Lady  {taking  up  the  snuffers  and  holding  the  letter 
to  the  candle  flame  with  it).  I  wonder  would  Cassar's 
wife  be  above  suspicion  if  she  saw  us  here  together ! 

Napoleon  {echoing  her,  with  his  elbows  on  the  table 
and  his  cheeks  on  his  hands,  looking  at  the  letter).  I 
wonder ! 

{The  Strange  Lady  puts  the  letter  down  alight  on  the 
snuffers  tray,  and  sits  down  beside  Napoleon,  in  the 
same  attitude,  elbows  on  table,  cheeks  on  hands,  watch- 
ing it  burn.  When  it  is  burnt,  they  simultaneously  turn 
their  eyes  and  look  at  one  another.  The  curtcin  steals 
down  and  hides  them.) 

curtain. 


YOU  NEVER   CAN  TELL 


YOU    NEVER    CAN    TELL 


ACT    I 

In  a  dentist's  operating  room  on  a  -fine  August  morn- 
ing in  1896.  Not  the  usual  tiny  London  den,  but  the 
best  sitting  room  of  a  furnished  lodging  in  a  terrace  on 
the  sea  front  at  a  fashionable  watering  place.  The  oper- 
ating chair,  with  a  gas  pump  and  cylinder  beside  it, 
is  half  way  between  the  centre  of  the  room  and  one  of 
the  corners.  If  you  look  into  the  room  through  the 
window  which  lights  it,  you  will  see  the  fireplace  in  the 
middle  of  the  wall  opposite  you,  with  the  door  beside  it 
to  your  left;  an  M.R.C.S.  diploma  in  a  frame  hung  on 
the  chimneypiece;  an  easy  chair  covered  in  black  leather 
on  the  hearth;  a  neat  stool  and  bench,  with  vice,  tools, 
and  a  mortar  and  pestle  in  the  corner  to  the  right.  Near 
this  bench  stands  a  slender  machine  like  a  whip  provided 
with  a  stand,  a  pedal,  and  an  exaggerated  winch.  Recog- 
nising this  as  a  dental  drill,  you  shtidder  and  look  away 
to  your  left,  where  you  can  see  another  window,  under- 
neath which  stands  a  writing  table,  with  a  blotter  and  a 
diary  on  it,  and  a  chair.  Next  the  writing  table,  towards 
the  door,  is  a  leather  covered  sofa.  The  opposite  wall, 
close  on  your  right,  is  occupied  mostly  by  a  bookcase. 
The  operating  chair  is  under  your  nose,  facing  you,  with 
the  cabinet  of  instruments  handy  to  it  on  your  left.  You 
observe  that  the  professional  ftirniture  and  apparatus  are 
new,  and  that  the  wall  paper,  designed,  with  the  taste 
of  an  undertaker,  in  festoons  and  urns,  the  carpet  with 

219 


220  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

its  symmetrical  plans  of  rich,  cahhagy  nosegays,  the  glass 
gasalier  with  lustres;  the  ornamental  gilt  rimmed  blue 
candlesticks  on  the  ends  of  the  mantelshelf,  also  glass- 
draped  with  lustres,  and  the  ormolu  clock  under  a  glass 
cover  in  the  middle  between  them,  its  uselessness  empha- 
sized by  a  cheap  American  clock  disrespectfully  placed 
beside  it  and  now  indicating  12  o'clock  noon,  all  com- 
bine with  the  black  marble  which  gives  the  fireplace  the 
air  of  a  miniature  family  vault,  to  suggest  early  Vic- 
torian commercial  respectability,  belief  in  money,  Bible 
fetichism,  fear  of  hell  always  at  war  with  fear  of  pov- 
erty, instinctive  horror  of  the  passionate  character  of 
art,  love  and  Roman  Catholic  religion,  and  all  the  first 
fruits  of  plutocracy  in  the  early  generations  of  the 
industrial    revolution. 

There  is  no  shadow  of  this  on  the  two  persons  who 
are  occupying  the  room  just  now.  One  of  them,  a  very 
pretty  woman  in  miniature,  her  tiny  figure  dressed  with 
the  daintiest  gaiety,  is  of  a  later  generation,  being 
hardly  eighteen  yet.  This  darling  little  creature  clearly 
does  not  belong  to  the  room,  or  even  to  the  country;  for 
her  complexion,  though  very  delicate,  has  been  burnt 
biscuit  color  by  some  warmer  sun  than  England's ;  and 
yet  there  is,  for  a  very  subtle  observer,  a  link  between 
them.  For  she  has  a  glass  of  water  in  her  hand,  and  a 
rapidly  clearing  cloud  of  Spartan  obstinacy  on  her  tiny 
firm  set  mouth  and  quaintly  squared  eyebrows.  If  the 
least  line  of  conscience  could  be  traced  between  those 
eyebrows,  an  Evangelical  might  cherish  some  faint  hope 
of  finding  her  a  sheep  in  wolf's  clothing — for  her  frock 
is  recklessly  pretty — but  as  the  cloud  vanishes  it  leaves 
her  frontal  sinus  as  smoothly  free  from  conviction  of 
sin  as  a  .kitten's. 

The  dentist,  contemplating  her  with  the  self-satisfac- 
tion of  a  successful  operator,  is  a  young  man  of  thirty 
or  thereabouts.  He  does  not  give  the  impression  of 
being  much  of  a  workman:  his  professional  manner  evi- 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  221 

dently  strihes  him  as  being  a  joke,  and  is  underlain  by 
a  thoughtless  pleasantry  which  betrays  the  young  gen- 
tleman still  unsettled  and  in  search  of  amusing  adven- 
tures, behind  the  nervly  set-up  dentist  in  search  of 
patients.  He  is  not  rvithout  gravity  of  demeanor;  but 
the  strained  nostrils  stamp  it  as  the  gravity  of  the 
humorist.  His  eyes  are  clear,  alert,  of  sceptically  mod- 
erate size,  and  yet  a  little  rash;  his  forehead  is  an  excel- 
lent one,  with  plenty  of  room  behind  it;  his  nose  and  chin 
cavalierly  handsome.  On  the  whole,  an  attractive,  no- 
ticeable beginner,  of  whose  prospects  a  man  of  business 
might  form  a  tolerably  favorable  estimate. 

The  Young  Lady  {handing  him  the  glass).  Thank 
you.  {In  spite  of  the  biscuit  complexion  she  has  not  the 
slightest  foreign  accent.) 

The  Dentist  {putting  it  down  on  the  ledge  of  his 
cabinet  of  instruments).     That  was  my  first  tooth. 

The  Young  Lady  {aghast).  Your  first!  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  you  began  practising  on  me? 

The  Dentist.  Every  dentist  has  to  begin  on  some- 
body. 

The  Young  Lady.  Yes:  somebody  in  a  hospital,  not 
people  who  pay. 

The  Dentist  {laughing).  Oh,  the  hospital  doesn't 
count.  I  only  meant  my  first  tooth  in  private  practice. 
Why  didn't  you  let  me  give  you  gas  ? 

The  Young  Lady.  Because  you  said  it  would  be  five 
shillings  extra. 

The  Dentist  {shocked).  Oh,  don't  say  that.  It 
makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had  hurt  you  for  the  sake  of  five 
shillings. 

The  Young  Lady  {with  cool  insolence).  Well,  so 
you  have!  {She  gets  up.)  Why  shouldn't  you ?  it's  your 
business  to  hurt  people.  {It  amuses  him  to  be  treated 
in  this  fashion:  he  chuckles  secretly  as  he  proceeds  to 
clean  and  replace  his  instruments.     She  shakes  her  dress 


222  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

into  order;  looks  inquisitively  about  her;  and  goes  to  the 
window.^  You  have  a  good  view  of  the  sea  from  these 
rooms  !     Are  they  expensive  ? 

The  Dentist.     Yes. 

The  Young  Lady.  You  don't  own  the  whole  house, 
do  you? 

The  Dentist.     No. 

The  Young  Lady  (talcing  the  chair  which  stands  at 
the  writing-table  and  looking  critically  at  it  as  she  spins 
it  round  on  one  leg.)  Your  furniture  isn't  quite  the  latest 
thing,  is  it? 

The  Dentist.     It's  my  landlord's. 

The  Young  Lady.  Does  he  own  that  nice  comfort- 
able Bath  chair?  (pointing  to  the  operating  chair.) 

The  Dentist.  No:  I  have  that  on  the  hire-purchase 
system. 

The  Young  Lady  (disparagingly).  I  thought  so. 
(Looking  about  her  again  in  search  of  further  conclu- 
sions.)    I  suppose  you  haven't  been  here  long? 

The  Dentist.  Six  weeks.  Is  there  anything  else 
you  would  like  to  know? 

The  Young  Lady  (the  hint  quite  lost  on  her).  Any 
family  ? 

The  Dentist.      I  am  not  married. 

The  Young  Lady.  Of  course  not:  anybody  can  see 
that.     I  meant  sisters  and  mother  and  that  sort  of  thing. 

The  Dentist.      Not  on  the  premises. 

The  Young  Lady.  Hm !  If  you've  been  here  six 
weeks,  and  mine  was  your  first  tooth,  the  practice  can't 
be  very  large,  can  it? 

The  Dentist.  Not  as  yet.  (He  shuts  the  cabinet, 
having  tidied  up  everything.) 

The  Young  Lady.  Well,  good  luck !  (She  takes  out 
her  purse.)     Five  shillings,  you  said  it  would  be? 

The  Dentist.     Five  shillings. 

The  Young  Lady  (producing  a  crown  piece).  Do 
you  charge  five  shillings  for  everything? 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  223 

The  Dentist.     Yes. 

The  Young  Lady.     Why? 

The  Dentist.  It's  my  system.  ±'m  what's  called  a 
five  shilling  dentist. 

The  Young  Lady.  How  nice!  Well,  here!  (hold- 
ing up  the  crown  piece)  a  nice  new  five  shilling  piece ! 
your  first  fee !  Make  a  hole  in  it  with  the  thing  you 
drill  people's  teeth  with;  and  wear  it  on  your  watch- 
chain. 

The  Dentist.     Thank  you. 

The  Parlor  Maid  (appearing  at  the  door).  The 
young  lady's  brother,  sir. 

A  handsome  man  in  m,iniature,  obviously  the  young 
lady's  twin,  comes  in  eagerly.  He  wears  a  suit  of  terra- 
cotta cashmere,  the  elegantly  cut  frock  coat  lined  in 
brown  silk,  and  carries  in  his  hand  a  brown  tall  hat  and 
tan  gloves  to  match.  He  has  his  sister's  delicate  biscuit 
complexion,  and  is  built  on  the  same  small  scale;  but 
he  is  elastic  and  strong  in  muscle,  decisive  in  movement, 
unexpectedly  deeptoned  and  trenchant  in  speech,  and 
with  perfect  manners  and  a  finished  personal  style  which 
might  be  envied  by  a  man  twice  his  age.  Suavity  and 
self-possession  are  points  of  honor  with  him;  and  though 
this,  rightly  considered,  is  only  the  modern  mode  of 
boyish  self-consciousness,  its  effect  is  none  the  less  stag- 
gering to  his  elders,  and  would  be  insufferable  in  a  less 
prepossessing  youth.  He  is  promptitude  itself,  and  has 
a  question  ready  the  moment  he  enters. 

The  Young  Gentleman.     Am  I  in  time.^ 

The  Young  Lady.     No:  it's  all  over. 

The  Young  Gentleman.     Did  you  howl? 

The  Young  Lady.  Oh,  something  awful.  Mr.  Val- 
■entine:  this  is  my  brother  Phil.  Phil:  this  is  Mr. 
Valentine,  our  new  dentist.  (Valentine  and  Phil  bow  to 
one  another.  She  proceeds,  all  in  one  breath.)  He's  only 
been  here  six  weeks ;  and  he's  a  bachelor.  The  house  isn't 
his;  and  the  f'::rniture  is  the  landlord's;  but  the  profes- 


224  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

sional  plant  is  hired.  He  got  my  tooth  out  beautifully 
at  the  first  go;  and  he  and  I  are  great  friends. 

Philip.     Been  asking  a  lot  of  questions  ? 

The  Young  Lady  (as  if  incapable  of  doing  such  a 
thing).     Oh,  no. 

Philip.  Glad  to  hear  it.  (To  Valentine.')  So  good 
of  you  not  to  mind  us,  Mr.  Valentine.  The  fact  is,  we've 
ncAer  been  in  England  before;  and  our  mother  tells  us 
that  the  people  here  simply  won't  stand  us.  Come  and 
lunch  with  us.  (Valentine,  bewildered  by  the  leaps  and 
bounds  with  which  their  acquaintanceship  is  proceeding, 
gasps;  but  he  has  no  opportunity  of  speaking,  as  the 
conversation  of  the  twins  is  swift  and  continuous.) 

The  Young  Lady.     Oh,  do,  Mr.  Valentine. 

Philip.     At  the  Marine  Hotel — half  past  one. 

The  Young  Lady.  We  shall  be  able  to  tell  mamma 
that  a  respectable  Englishman  has  promised  to  lunch 
with  us. 

Philip.     Say  no  more,  Mr.  Valentine:  you'll  come. 

Valentine.  Say  no  more !  I  haven't  said  anything. 
May  I  ask  whom  I  have  the  pleasure  of  entertaining? 
It's  really  quite  impossible  for  me  to  lunch  at  the  Marine 
Hotel  with  two  perfect  strangers. 

The  Young  Lady  (flippantly).  Ooooh!  what  bosh! 
One  patient  in  six  weeks !  What  difference  does  it  make 
to  you? 

Philip  (maturely).  No,  Dolly:  my  knowledge  of 
human  nature  confirms  Mr.  Valentine's  judgment.  He 
is  right.  Let  me  introduce  ]\Iiss  Dorothy  Clandon,  com- 
monly called  Dolly.  (Valentine  bows  to  Dolly.  She 
nods  to  him.)  I'm  Philip  Clandon.  We're  from  Ma- 
deira, but  perfectly  respectable,  so  far. 

Valentine.     Clandon  !     Are  you  related  to 

Dolly  (unexpectedly  crying  out  in  despair).  Yes, 
we  are. 

Valentine  (astonished).     I  beg  your  pardon? 

Dolly.     Oh,  we  are,  we  are.    It's  all  over,  Phil:  they 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  225 

know  all  about  us  in  England.  {To  Valentine.)  Oh, 
you  can't  think  how  maddening  it  is  to  be  related  to  a 
celebrated  person,  and  never  be  valued  anywhere  for 
our  own  sakes. 

Valentine.  But  excuse  me:  the  gentleman  I  was 
thinking  of  is  not  celebrated. 

Dolly  {staring  at  him).  Gentleman!  {Phil  is  also 
puzzled.) 

Valentine.  Yes.  I  was  going  to  ask  whether  you 
were  by  any  chance  a  daughter  of  JVIr.  Densmore  Clan- 
don  of  Newbury  Hall. 

Dolly   {vacantly).     No. 

Philip.  Well  come,  Dolly:  how  do  you  know  you're 
not? 

Dolly  {cheered).  Oh,  I  forgot.  Of  course.  Per- 
haps   I    am. 

Valentine.     Don't   you   know? 

Philip.      Not  in  the  least. 

Dolly.      It's  a  wise  child 

Philip  {cutting  her  short).  Sh !  {Valentine  starts 
nervously ;  for  the  sound  made  hy  Philip,  though  but  mo- 
mentary, is  like  cutting  a  sheet  of  silk  in  two  with  a 
flash  of  lightning.  It  is  the  residt  of  long  practice  in 
checking  Dolly's  indiscretions.)  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Val- 
entine, we  are  the  children  of  the  celebrated  Mrs. 
Lanfrey  Clandon,  an  authoress  of  great  repute — in  Ma- 
deira. No  household  is  complete  without  her  works.  We 
came  to  England  to  get  away  from  them.  They  are 
called  the  Twentieth  Century  Treatises. 

Dolly.     Twentieth  Century  Cooking. 

Philip.     Twentieth  Century  Creeds. 

Dolly.     Twentieth  Century  Clothing. 

Philip.     Twentieth  Century  Conduct. 

Dolly.     Twentieth  Century  Children. 

Philip.     Twentieth  Century  Parents. 

Dolly.     Cloth  limp,  half  a  dollar. 

Philip.     Or  mounted  on  linen   for  hard  family  use.> 


226  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

two  dollars.  No  family  should  be  without  them.  Read 
them,  Mr.  Valentine:  they'll  improve  your  mind. 

Dolly.     But  not  till  we've  gone,  please. 

Philip.  Quite  so:  we  prefer  people  with  unimproved 
minds.  Our  own  minds  are  in  that  fresh  and  unspoiled 
condition. 

Valentine    (dtibiously).     Hm! 

Dolly  (echoing  him  inquiringly^.  Hm?  Phil:  he 
prefers  people  whose  minds  are  improved. 

Philip.  In  that  case  we  shall  have  to  introduce  him 
to  the  other  member  of  the  family:  the  Woman  of  the 
Twentieth  Century;  our  sister  Gloria! 

Dolly  (dithyrambically) .     Nature's  masterpiece! 

Philip.     Learning's  daughter ! 

Dolly.      Madeira's   pride ! 

Philip.     Beauty's  paragon ! 

Dolly  (suddenly  descending  to  prose").  Bosh!  No 
complexion. 

Valentine  (desperately).     May  I  have  a  word? 

Philip  (politely).     Excuse  us.     Go  ahead. 

Dolly  (very  nicely).     So  sorry. 

Valentine  (attempting  to  take  them  paternally).  I 
really  must  give  a  hint  to  you  young  people 

Dolly  (breaJdng  out  again).  Oh,  come:  I  like  that. 
How  old  are  you? 

Philip.     Over  thirty. 

Dolly.     He's  not. 

Philip  (confidently).     He  is. 

Dolly   (emphatically).     Twenty-seven. 

Philip    (im  perturb  ably).     Thirty-three. 

Dolly.     StuiF ! 

Philip  (to  Valentine).  I  appeal  to  you,  Mr.  Valen- 
tine. 

Valentine  (remonstrating).  Well,  really — (resign- 
ing himself.)     Thirty-one. 

Philip  (to  Dolly).     You  were  wrong. 

Dolly.     So  were  you. 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  227 

Philip  {suddenly  conscientious).  We're  forgetting 
our  manners^  Dolly. 

Dolly  {remorseful).     Yes,  so  we  are. 

Philip  {apologetic).  We  interrupted  you,  Mr.  Val- 
entine. 

Dolly.  You  were  going  to  improve  our  minds,  I 
think. 

Valentine.     The  fact  is,  your 

Philip   {anticipating  him).     Our  appearance? 

Dolly.     Our  manners? 

Valentine  {ad  misericordiam).    Oh,  do  let  me  speak. 

Dolly.     The  old  story.    We  talk  too  much. 

Philip.  We  do.  Shut  up,  both.  {He  seats  himself 
on  the  arm  of  the  operating  chair.) 

Dolly.  Mum!  {She  sits  down  in  the  writing-table 
chair,  and  closes  her  lips  tight  with  the  tips  of  her  fin- 
gers.) 

Valentine.  Thank  you.  {He  brings  the  stool  from 
the  bench  in  the  corner;  places  it  between  them;  and  sits 
down  with  a  judicial  air.  They  attend  to  him  with  ex- 
treme gravity.  He  addresses  himself  first  to  Dolly.) 
Now  may  I  ask,  to  begin  with,  have  you  ever  been  in  an 
English  seaside  resort  before?  {She  shakes  her  head 
slowly  and  solemnly.  He  turns  to  Phil,  who  shakes  his 
head  quickly  and  expressively.)  I  thought  so.  Well, 
Mr.  Clandon,  our  acquaintance  has  been  short;  but  it  has 
been  voluble;  and  I  have  gathered  enough  to  convince  me 
that  you  are  neither  of  you  capable  of  conceiving  what 
life  in  an  English  seaside  resort  is.  Believe  me,  it's 
not  a  question  of  manners  and  appearance.  In  those 
respects  we  enjoy  a  freedom  unknown  in  Madeira. 
{Dolly  shakes  her  head  vehemently.)  Oh,  yes,  I  assure 
you.  Lord  de  Cresci's  sister  bicycles  in  knickerbockers; 
and  the  rector's  wife  advocates  dress  reform  and  wears 
hygienic  boots.  {Dolly  furtively  looks  at  her  own  shoe: 
Valentine  catches  her  in  the  act,  and  deftly  adds.)  No, 
that's  not  the  sort  of  boot  I  mean.     {Dolly's  shoe  van' 


228  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

ishes.)  We  don't  bother  much  about  dress  and  manners 
in  England,  because,  as  a  nation  we  don't  dress  well  and 
we've  no  manners.  But — and  now  will  you  excuse  my 
frankness?  (They  nod.)  Thank  you.  Well,  in  a  sea- 
side resort  there's  one  thing  you  must  have  before  any- 
body can  afford  to  be  seen  going  about  with  you;  and 
that's  a  father,  alive  or  dead.  {He  looks  at  them  alter- 
nately, with  emphasis.  They  meet  his  gaze  like  mar- 
tyrs.) Am  I  to  infer  that  you  have  omitted  that  indispen- 
sable part  of  your  social  equipment?  (They  confirm  him 
by  melanclioly  nods.)  Then  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  if  you 
are  going  to  stay  here  for  any  length  of  time,  it  will  be 
impossible  for  me  to  accept  your  kind  invitation  to  lunch. 
(He  rises  with  an  air  of  finality,  and  replaces  the  stool 
by  the  bench.) 

Philip  (rising  with  grave  politeness).  Come,  Dolly. 
(He  gives  her  his  arm.) 

Dolly.  Good  morning.  (They  go  together  to  the 
door  with  perfect  dignity.) 

Valentine  (overwhelmed  with  remorse).  Oh,  stop, 
stop.  (They  halt  and  turn,  arm  in  arm.)  You  make  me 
feel  a  perfect  beast. 

Dolly.     That's  your  conscience:  not  us. 

Valentine  (energetically,  throwing  off  all  pretence 
of  a  professional  manner).  My  conscience!  My  con- 
science has  been  my  ruin.  Listen  to  me.  Twice  before 
I  have  set  up  as  a  respectable  medical  practitioner  in 
various  parts  of  England.  On  both  occasions  I  acted 
conscientiously,  and  told  my  patients  the  brute  truth  in- 
stead of  what  they  wanted  to  be  told.  Result,  ruin. 
Now  I've  set  up  as  a  dentist,  a  five  shilling  dentist;  and 
I've  done  with  conscience  forever.  This  is  my  last 
chance.  I  spent  my  last  sovereign  on  moving  in ;  and  I 
haven't  paid  a  shilling  of  rent  yet.  I'm  eating  and 
drinking  on  credit;  my  landlord  is  as  rich  as  a  Jew  and 
as  hard  as  nails;  and  I've  made  five  shillings  in  six 
weeks.     If  I  swerve  by  a  hair's  breadth  from  the  straight 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  229 

line  of  the  most  rigid  respectability,  I'm  done  for.  Un- 
der such  circumstance,  is  it  fair  to  ask  me  to  lunch 
with  you  when  you  don't  know  your  own  father? 

Dolly.  After  all,  our  grandfather  is  a  canon  of  Lin- 
coln Cathedral. 

Valentine  (like  a  castaway  mariner  who  sees  a  sail 
on  the  horizon) .     What!    Have  you  a  grandfather ? 

Dolly.     Only  one. 

Valentine.  My  dear,  good  young  friends,  why  on 
earth  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before?  A  canon  of  Lin- 
coln !  That  makes  it  all  right,  of  course.  Just  excuse 
me  while  I  change  my  coat.  (He  reaches  the  door  in  a 
bound  and  vanishes.  Dolly  and  Phil  stare  after  him,  and 
then  stare  at  one  another.  Missing  their  audience,  they 
droop  and  become  commonplace  at  once.) 

Philip  (throwing  away  Dolly's  arm  and  coming  ill- 
humoredly  towards  the  operating  chair).  That  wretched 
bankrupt  ivory  snatcher  makes  a  compliment  of  allow- 
ing us  to  stand  him  a  lunch — probably  the  first  square 
meal  he  has  had  for  months.  (He  gives  the  chair  a 
kick,  as  if  it  were  Valentine.) 

Dolly.  It's  too  beastly.  I  won't  stand  it  any  longer, 
Phil.  Here  in  England  everybody  asks  whether  you  have 
a  father  the  very  first  thing. 

Philip.  I  won't  stand  it  either.  Mamma  must  tell 
us  who  he  was. 

Dolly.     Or  who  he  is.     He  may  be  alive. 

Philip.     I  hope  not.     No  man  alive  shall  father  me. 

Dolly.     He  might  have  a  lot  of  money,  though. 

Philip.  I  doubt  it.  My  knowledge  of  human  nature 
leads  me  to  believe  that  if  he  had  a  lot  of  money  he 
wouldn't  have  got  rid  of  his  affectionate  family  so  easily. 
Anyhow,  let's  look  at  the  bright  side  of  things.  De- 
pend on  it,  he's  dead.  (He  goes  to  the  hearth  and  stands 
with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  spreading  himself.  The 
parlor  maid  appears.  The  twins,  under  observation,  in- 
stantly shine  out  again  with  their  former  brilliancy.) 


230  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

The  Parlor  Maid.  Two  ladies  for  you,  miss.  Your 
mother  and  sister,  miss,  I  think. 

Mrs.  Clandon  and  Gloria  come  in.  Mrs.  Clandon  is 
between  forty  and  fifty,  with  a  slight  tendency  to  soft, 
sedentary  fat,  and  a  fair  remainder  of  good  looks,  none 
the  worse  preserved  because  she  has  evidently  followed 
the  old  tribal  matronly  fashion  of  making  no  pretension 
in  that  direction  after  her  marriage,  and  might  almost 
be  suspected  of  wearing  a  cap  at  home.  She  carries  her- 
self artificially  well,  as  women  were  taught  to  do  as  a 
part  of  good  manners  by  dancing  masters  and  reclining 
boards  before  these  mere  superseded  by  the  modern  ar- 
tistic cult  of  beauty  and  health.  Her  hair,  a  flaxen  hazel 
fading  into  white,  is  crimped,  and  parted  in  the  middle 
with  the  ends  plaited  and  made  into  a  knot,  from  which 
observant  people  of  a  certain  age  infer  that  Mrs.  Clan- 
don had  sufficient  individuality  and  good  taste  to  stand 
out  resolutely  against  the  now  forgotten  chignon  in  her 
girlhood.  In  short,  she  is  distinctly  old  fashioned  for 
her  age  in  dress  and  manners.  But  she  belongs  to  the 
forefront  of  her  own  period  (say  1860-80)  in  a  jealously 
assertive  attitude  of  character  and  intellect,  and  in  being 
a  woman  of  cultivated  interests  rather  than  passionately 
developed  personal  affections.  Her  voice  and  ways  are 
entirely  kindly  and  humane;  and  she  lends  herself  con- 
scientiously to  the  occasional  demonstrations  of  fondness 
by  which  her  children  mark  their  esteem  for  her;  but 
displays  of  personal  sentiment  secretly  embarrass  her: 
passion  in  her  is  humanitarian  rather  than  human:  she 
feels  strongly  about  social  questions  and  principles,  not 
about  persons.  Only,  one  observes  that  this  reasonable- 
ness and  intense  personal  privacy,  which  leaves  her  re- 
lations with  Gloria  and  Phil  much  as  they  might  be  be- 
tween her  and  the  children  of  any  other  woman,  breaks 
down  in  the  case  of  Dolly.  Though  almost  every  word 
she  addresses  to  her  is  necessarily  in  the  nature  of  a 
remonstrance  for  some  breach  of  decorum,  the  tender- 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  231 

ness  in  her  voice  is  unmistakable;  and  it  is  not  surpris- 
ing that  years  of  such  remonstrance  have  left  Dolly  hope- 
lessly spoiled. 

Gloria,  who  is  hardly  past  trventy,  is  a  much  more 
formidable  person  than  her  mother.  She  is  the  incarna- 
tion of  haughty  highmindedness,  raging  with  the  impa- 
tience of  an  impetuous,  dominative  character  paralyzed 
by  the  impotence  of  her  youth,  and  unwillingly  disci- 
plined by  the  constant  danger  of  ridicule  from  her  light- 
er-handed juniors.  Unlike  her  mother,  she  is  all  passion; 
and  the  conflict  of  her  passion  with  her  obstinate  pride 
and  intense  fastidiousness  results  in  a  freezing  coldness 
of  manner.  In  an  ugly  woman  all  this  woidd  be  repul- 
sive; but  Gloria  is  an  attractive  woman.  Her  deep  chest- 
nut hair,  olive  brown  skin,  long  eyelashes,  shaded  grey 
eyes  that  often  flash  like  stars,  delicately  turned  full  lips, 
and  compact  and  supple,  but  muscularly  plump  figure 
appeal  with  disdainful  frankness  to  the  senses  and  imag- 
ination. A  very  dangerous  girl,  one  woidd  say,  if  the 
moral  passions  were  not  also  marked,  and  even  nobly 
marked,  in  a  fine  brow.  Her  tailor-made  skirt-and- jacket 
dress  of  saffron  brown  cloth,  seems  conventional  when 
her  back  is  turned;  but  it  displays  in  front  a  blouse  of 
sea-green  silk  which  upsets  its  conventionality  with  one 
stroke,  and  sets  her  apart  as  effectually  as  the  twins  from 
the  ordinary  run  of  fashionable  seaside  humanity. 

Mrs.  Clandon  comes  a  little  way  into  the  room,  looking 
round  to  see  who  is  present.  Gloria,  who  studiously 
avoids  encouraging  the  twins  by  betraying  any  interest  in 
them,  wanders  to  the  window  and  looks  out  with  her 
thoughts  far  away.  The  parlor  maid,  instead  of  with- 
drawing, shuts  the  door  and  waits  at  it. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Well^  children.^  How  is  the  tooth- 
ache, Dolly.'' 

Dolly.  Cured,  thank  Heaven.  I've  had  it  out.  {She 
sits  down  on  the  step  of  the  operating  chair.  Mrs.  Clan- 
don takes  the  writing-table  chair.) 


232  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

Philip  (striking  in  gravely  from  the  hearth).  And 
the  dentist,  a  first-rate  professional  man  of  the  highest 
standing,  is  coming  to  lunch  with  us. 

Mrs.  Clandon  {looking  round  apprehensively  at  the 
servant).     Phil! 

The  Parlor  Maid.  Beg  pardon,  ma'am.  I'm  wait- 
ing for  Mr.  Valentine.    I  have  a  message  for  him. 

Dolly.     Who  from? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (shocked).  Dolly!  (Dolly  catches 
her  lips  with  her  finger  tips,  suppressing  a  little  splutter 
of  mirth.) 

The  Parlor  Maid.     Only  the  landlord,  ma'am. 

Valentine,  in  a  blue  serge  suit,  with  a  straw  hat  in  his 
hand,  comes  back  in  high  spirits,  out  of  breath  with  the 
haste  he  has  made.  Gloria  turns  from  the  window  and 
studies  him  with  freezing  attention. 

Philip.  Let  me  introduce  you,  Mr.  Valentine.  My 
mother,  Mrs.  Lanfrey  Clandon.  (Mrs.  Clandon  hows. 
Valentine  bows,  self-possessed  and  quite  equal  to  the 
occasion.)  My  sister  Gloria.  (Gloria  bows  with  cold, 
dignity  and  sits  down  on  the  sofa.  Valentine  falls  in 
love  at  first  sight  and  is  miserably  confused.  He  fingers 
his  hat  nervously,  and  makes  her  a  sneaking  bow.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  understand  that  we  are  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  luncheon  to-day,  Mr.  Valen- 
tine. 

Valentine.  Thank  you — er — if  you  don't  mind — I 
mean  if  you  will  be  so  kind  —  (to  the  parlor  maid  test- 
ily)    What  is  it.? 

The  Parlor  Maid.  The  landlord,  sir,  wishes  to 
speak  to  you  before  you  go  out. 

Valentine.  Oh,  tell  him  I  have  four  patients  here. 
(The  Clandons  look  surprised,  except  Phil,  who  is  i?nper- 
turbahle.)  If  he  wouldn't  mind  waiting  just  two  min- 
utes, I — I'll  slip  down  and  see  him  for  a  moment. 
(Throwing  himself  confidentially  on  her  sense  of  the 
position.)     Say  I'm  busy,  but  that  I  want  to  see  him. 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  233 

The  Parlor  Maid  (reassuringly').  Yes,  sir.  (She 
goes.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (on  the  point  of  rising).  We  are  de- 
taining you,   I   am  afraid. 

Valentine.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  Your  presence 
here  will  be  the  greatest  help  to  me.  The  fact  is,  I  owe 
six  weeks'  rent;  and  I've  had  no  patients  until  to-day. 
My  interview  with  my  landlord  will  be  considerably 
smoothed  by  the  apparent  boom  in  my  business. 

Dolly  (vexed).  Oh,  how  tiresome  of  you  to  let  it  all 
out!  And  we've  just  been  pretending  that  you  were  a 
respectable  professional  man  in  a  first-rate  position. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (horrified).  Oh,  Dolly,  Dolly!  My 
dearest,  how  can  you  be  so  rude?  (To  Valentine.)  Will 
you  excuse  these  barbarian  children  of  mine,  Mr.  Valen- 
tine? 

Valentine.  Thank  you,  I'm  used  to  them.  Would 
it  be  too  much  to  ask  you  to  wait  five  minutes  while  I  get 
rid  of  my  landlord  downstairs  ? 

Dolly.     Don't  be  long.     We're  hungry. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (again  remonstrating).     Dolly,  dear! 

Valentine  (to  Dolly).  All  right.  (To  Mrs.  Clan- 
don.) Thank  you:  I  shan't  be  long.  (He  steals  a  look 
at  Gloria  as  he  turns  to  go.  She  is  looking  gravely  at 
him.  He  falls  into  confusion.)  I — er — er — yes — thank 
you  (he  succeeds  at  last  in  blundering  himself  out  of  the 
room;  but  the  exhibition  is  a  pitiful  one). 

Philip.  Did  you  observe?  (Pointing  to  Gloria.) 
Love  at  first  sight.  You  can  add  his  scalp  to  your  col- 
lection, Gloria. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Sh — sh,  pray,  Phil.  He  may  have 
heard  you. 

Philip.  Not  he.  (Bracing  himself  for  a  scene.)  And 
now  look  here,  mamma.  (He  takes  the  stool  from  the 
bench;  and  seats  himself  majestically  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  taking  a  leaf  out  of  Valentine's  book.  Dolly, 
feeling  that  her  position  on  the  step  of  the  operating 


234  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

chair  is  iivworthi/  of  the  dignity  of  the  occasion,  rises, 
looking  important  and  determined;  crosses  to  the  win- 
dow; and  stands  with  her  back  to  the  end  of  the  writing- 
table,  her  hands  behind  her  and  on  the  table.  Mrs, 
Clandon  looks  at  them,  wondering  what  is  coming. 
Gloria  becomes  attentive.  Philip  straightens  his  back; 
places  his  knuckles  symmetrically  on  his  knees;  and  opens 
his  case.)  Dolly  and  I  have  been  talking  over  things  a 
good  deal  lately;  and  I  don't  think,  judging  from  my 
knowledge  of  human  nature — we  don't  think  that  you 
speaking  very  staccato,  with  the  words  detached) 
quite  appreciate  the  fact 

Dolly  (seating  herself  on  the  end  of  the  table  with  a 
spring).     That  we've  grown  up. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Indeed?  In  what  way  have  I  given 
you  any  reason  to  complain? 

Philip.  Well,  there  are  certain  matters  upon  which 
we  are  beginning  to  feel  that  you  might  take  us  a  little 
more  into  your  confidence. 

Mrs.  Clandon  {rising,  with  all  the  placidity  of  her 
age  suddenly  broken  up;  and  a  curious  hard  excitement, 
dignified  but  dogged,  ladylike  but  implacable — the  man- 
ner of  the  Old  Guard  of  the  Women's  Rights  movement 
— coming  upon  her).  Phil:  take  care.  Remember  what 
I  have  always  taught  you.  There  are  two  sorts  of  family 
life,  Phil;  and  your  experience  of  human  nature  only 
extends,  so  far,  to  one  of  them.  {Rhetorically.)  The 
sort  you  know  is  based  on  mutual  respect,  on  recognition 
of  the  right  of  every  member  of  the  household  to  inde- 
pendence and  privacy  {her  emphasis  on  "  privacy  "  is 
intense)  in  their  personal  concerns.  And  because  you 
have  always  enjoyed  that,  it  seems  such  a  matter  of 
course  to  you  that  you  don't  value  it.  But  {with  biting 
acrimony)  there  is  another  sort  of  family  life:  a  life  in 
which  husbands  open  their  wives'  letters,  and  call  on  them 
to  account  for  every  farthing  of  their  expenditure  and 
every  moment  of  their  time;  in  which  women  do  the  same 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  235 

to  their  children ;  in  which  no  room  is  private  and  no  hour 
sacred;  in  which  duty,  obedience,  afTection,  home, 
morality  and  religion  are  detestable  tyrannies,  and  life 
is  a  vulgar  round  of  punishments  and  lies,  coercion  and 
rebellion,  jealousy,  suspicion,  recrimination — Oh!  I  can- 
not describe  it  to  you:  fortunately  for  you,  you  know 
nothing  about  it.  (She  sits  down,  panting.  Gloria  has 
listened  to  her  with  flashing  eyes,  sharing  all  her  indig- 
nation.) 

Dolly  (inaccessible  to  rhetoric).  See  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury Parents,  chapter  on  Liberty,  passim. 

Mrs.  Clandon  {touching  her  shoulder  affectionately, 
soothed  even  by  a  gibe  from  her).  My  dear  Dolly:  if 
you  only  knew  how  glad  I  am  that  it  is  nothing  but  a 
joke  to  you,  though  it  is  such  bitter  earnest  to  me.  (More 
resolutely,  turning  to  Philip.)  Phil,  I  never  ask  you 
questions  about  your  private  concerns.  You  are  not  going 
to  question  me,  are  you? 

Philip.  I  think  it  due  to  ourselves  to  say  that  the 
question  we  wanted  to  ask  is  as  much  our  business  as 
yours. 

Dolly.  Besides,  it  can't  be  good  to  keep  a  lot  of 
questions  bottled  up  inside  you.  You  did  it,  mamma ;  but 
see  how  awfully  it's  broken  out  again  in  me. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  see  you  want  to  ask  your  question. 
Ask  it. 

Dolly  and  Philip  (beginning  simultaneously).  Who 
—  (They  stop.) 

Philip.  Now  look  here,  Dolly:  am  I  going  to  con- 
duct this  business  or  are  you.'' 

Dolly.     You. 

Philip.  Then  hold  your  mouth.  (Dolly  does  so  lit- 
erally.) The  question  is  a  simple  one.  When  the  ivory 
snatcher 

Mrs.  Clandon  (remonstrating).     Phil! 

Philip.  Dentist  is  an  ugly  word.  The  man  of  ivory 
and  gold  asked  us  whether  we  were  the  children  of  Mr. 


236  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

Densmore  Clandon  of  Newbury  Hall.  In  pursuance  of 
the  precepts  in  your  treatise  on  Twentieth  Century  Con- 
duct, and  your  repeated  personal  exhortations  to  us  to 
curtail  the  number  of  unnecessary  lies  we  tell,  we  replied 
truthfully  that  we  didn't  know. 

Dolly.     Neither  did  we. 

Philip.  Sh !  The  result  was  that  the  gum  architect 
made  considerable  difficulties  about  accepting  our  invi- 
tation to  lunch,  although  I  doubt  if  he  has  had  anything 
but  tea  and  bread  and  butter  for  a  fortnight  past.  Now 
my  knowledge  of  human  nature  leads  me  to  believe  that 
we  had  a  father,  and  that  you  probably  know  who  he 
was. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (her  agitation  returning) .  Stop,  Phil. 
Your  father  is  nothing  to  you,  nor  to  me  (vehemently) . 
That  is  enough.  (The  twins  are  silenced,  but  not  satis- 
fied. Their  faces  fall.  But  Gloria,  who  has  been  fol- 
lowing the  altercation  attentively,  suddenly  intervenes.) 

Gloria  (advancing).  Mother:  we  have  a  right  to 
know. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (rising  and  facing  her).  Gloria! 
"We!"     Who  is  "we?" 

Gloria  (steadfastly).  We  three.  (Her  tone  is  un- 
mistakable: she  is  pitting  her  strength  against  her  moth- 
er's for  the  first  time.  The  twins  instantly  go  over  to 
the  enemy.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (wounded).  In  your  mouth  "we" 
used  to  mean  you  and  I,  Gloria. 

Philip  (rising  decisively  and  putting  away  the  stool). 
W^e're  hurting  you:  let's  drop  it.  We  didn't  think  you'd 
mind.     I  don't  want  to  know. 

Dolly  (coming  off  the  table).  I'm  sure  I  don't.  Oh, 
don't  look  like  that,  mamma.  (She  looks  angrily  at 
Gloria. ) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (touching  her  eyes  hastily  with  her 
handkerchief  and  sitting  down  again).  Thank  you,  my 
dear.     Thanks,  Phil. 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  237 

Gloria  (inexorably).  We  have  a  right  to  know, 
mother, 

Mrs.  Clandon  {indignantly).     Ah!     You  insist. 

Gloria.     Do  you  intend  that  we  shall  never  know? 

Dolly.     Oh,  Gloria,  don't.        It's  barbarous. 

Gloria  {with  quiet  scorn).  What  is  the  use  of  being 
weak?  You  see  what  has  happened  with  this  gentleman 
here,  mother.     The  same  thing  has  happened  to  me. 

Mrs.  Clandon")        .   „         f  What  do  you  mean? 

Dolly  [■  .       ^j     •.    <  Oh,  tell  us. 

Philip  )      ^^   ler).  ^  -yyjj^i-  happened  to  you? 

Gloria.  Oh,  nothing  of  any  consequence.  {She 
turns  away  from  them  and  goes  up  to  the  easy  chair 
at  the  fireplace,  where  she  sits  down,  almost  with  her 
back  to  them.  As  they  wait  expectantly,  she  adds,  over 
her  shoulder,  with  studied  indifference.)  On  board  the 
steamer  the  first  officer  did  me  the  honor  to  propose  to 
me. 

Dolly.     No,  it  was  to  me. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  The  first  officer!  Are  you  serious, 
Gloria?  What  did  you  say  to  him?  {correcting  herself) 
Excuse  me:  I  have  no  right  to  ask  that. 

Gloria.  The  answer  is  pretty  obvious.  A  woman 
who  does  not  know  who  her  father  was  cannot  accept 
such  an  offer. 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Surely  you  did  not  want  to  accept  it? 

Gloria  {turning  a  little  and  raising  her  voice).  No; 
but  suppose   I   had  wanted  to! 

Philip.     Did  that   difficulty   strike   you,   Dolly? 

Dolly.      No,  I  accepted  him. 

Gloria  ^     /   77         •  ( Accepted  him  I 

Mrs.   Clandon  f     (f  /^ymg     )  , 

Philip  j  ^"^   iogetJier).^  ^^^^  j  ^^^ , 

Dolly  {naively).     He  did  look  such  a  fool! 

Mrs.  Clandon.  But  why  did  you  do  such  a  thing, 
Dolly? 

Dolly.     For  fun,  I  suppose.     He  had  to  measure  my 


238  i^ou  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

finger  for  a  ring.  You'd  have  done  the  same  thing  your- 
self. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  No,  Dolly,  I  would  not.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  the  first  officer  did  propose  to  me;  and  I  told 
him  to  keep  that  sort  of  thing  for  women  who  were 
young  enough  to  be  amused  by  it.  He  appears  to  have 
acted  on  my  advice.  (She  rises  and  goes  to  the  hearth.) 
Gloria:  I  am  sorry  you  think  me  weak;  but  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  you  want.     You  are  all  too  young. 

Philip.  This  is  rather  a  startling  departure  from 
Twentieth   Century   principles. 

Dolly  {quoting).  "  Answer  all  your  children's  ques- 
tions, and  answer  them  truthfully,  as  soon  as  they  are  old 
enough  to  ask  them."  See  Twentieth  Century  Mother- 
hood  

Philip.      Page  one- 


DoLLY.     Chapter  one 

Philip.     Sentence  one. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  My  dears:  I  did  not  say  that  you 
were  too  young  to  know.  I  said  you  were  too  young  to 
be  taken  into  my  confidence.  You  are  very  bright  chil- 
dren, all  of  you;  but  I  am  glad  for  your  sakes  that  you 
are  still  very  inexperienced  and  consequently  very  un- 
sympathetic. There  are  some  experiences  of  mine  that 
I  cannot  bear  to  speak  of  except  to  those  who  have  gone 
through  what  I  have  gone  through.  I  hope  you  will 
never  be  qualified  for  such  confidences.  But  I  will  take 
care  that  you  shall  learn  all  you  want  to  know.  Will 
that  satisfy  you.'' 

Philip.     Another  grievance,  Dolly. 

Dolly.     We're  not  sympathetic. 

Gloria  (leaning  forward  in  her  chair  and  looking 
earnestly  up  at  her  mother).  Mother:  I  did  not  mean 
to  be  unsympathetic. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (affectionately).  Of  course  not,  dear. 
T}o  you  think  I  don't  understand? 

Gloria    (rising).     But,    mother 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  239 

Mrs.  Clandon  (drawing  back  a  little).     Yes? 

Gloria  {obstinately).  It  is  nonsense  to  tell  us  that 
our  father  is  nothing  to  us. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (provoked  to  sudden  resolution).  Do 
you  remember  your  father.'' 

Gloria  (meditatively,  as  if  the  recollection  were  a 
tender  one).     I  am  not  quite  sure.     I  think  so. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (grimly).     You  are  not  sure? 

Gloria.     No. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (with  quiet  force).  Gloria:  if  I  had 
ever  struck  you — (Gloria  recoils:  Philip  and  Dolly  are 
disagreeably  shocked;  all  three  stare  at  her,  revolted  as 
she  continues) — struck  you  purposely,  deliberately,  with 
the  intention  of  hurting  you,  with  a  whip  bought  for  the 
purpose!  Would  you  remember  that,  do  you  think.'' 
(Gloria  utters  an  exclamation  of  indignant  repulsion.) 
That  would  have  been  your  last  recollection  of  your 
father,  Gloria,  if  I  had  not  taken  you  away  from  him. 
I  have  kept  him  out  of  your  life:  keep  him  now  out  of 
mine  by  never  mentioning  him  to  me  again.  (Gloria, 
with  a  shudder,  covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  until, 
hearing  someone  at  the  door,  she  turns  away  and  pre- 
tends to  occupy  herself  looking  at  the  names  of  the 
books  in  the  bookcase.  Mrs.  Clandon  sits  down  on  the 
sofa.     Valentine  returns). 

Valentine.  I  hope  I've  not  kept  you  waiting.  That 
landlord  of  mine  is  really  an  extraordinary  old  character. 

Dolly  (eagerly).  Oh,  tell  us.  How  long  has  he 
given  you  to  pay.'' 

Mrs.  Clandon  (distracted  by  her  child's  bad  man- 
ners). Dolly,  Dolly,  Dolly  dear!  You  must  not  ask 
questions. 

Dolly  (demurely).  So  sorry.  You'll  tell  us,  won't 
you,  Mr.  Valentine.'' 

Valentine.  He  doesn't  want  his  rent  at  all.  He's 
broken  his  tooth  on  a  Brazil  nut;  and  he  wants  me  to 
look  at  it  and  to  lunch  with  him  afterwards. 


240  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

Dolly.  Then  have  him  up  and  pull  his  tooth  out  at 
once;  and  we'll  bring  him  to  lunch,  too.  Tell  the  maid 
to  fetch  him  along.  (She  runs  to  the  bell  and  rings  it 
vigorously.  Then,  with  a  sudden  doubt  she  turns  to 
Valentine  and  adds)  I  suppose  he's  respectable — really 
respectable. 

Valentine.     Perfectly.     Not  like  me. 

Dolly.  Honest  Injun?  (Mrs.  Clandon  gasps 
faintly;  but  her  powers  of  remonstrance  are  exhausted.) 

Valentine.     Honest  Injun! 

Dolly.     Then  off  with  you  and  bring  him  up. 

Valentine  {looking  dubiously  at  Mrs.  Clandon).  I 
daresay  he'd  be  delighted  if — er ? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (rising  and  looking  at  her  watch).  I 
shall  be  happy  to  see  your  friend  at  lunch,  if  you  can 
persuade  him  to  come;  but  I  can't  wait  to  see  him  now: 
I  have  an  appointment  at  the  hotel  at  a  quarter  to  one 
with  an  old  friend  whom  I  have  not  seen  since  I  left 
England  eighteen  years  ago.     Will  you  excuse  me? 

Valentine.     Certainly,  Mrs.  Clandon. 

Gloria.     Shall  I  come? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  No,  dear.  I  want  to  be  alone.  (She 
goes  out,  evidently  still  a  good  deal  troubled.  Valentine 
opens  the  door  for  her  and  follows  her  out.) 

Philip    (significantly — to  Dolly).     Hmhm! 

Dolly  (significantly  to  Philip).  Ahah!  (The  parlor 
maid  answers  the  bell.) 

Dolly.     Show  the  old  gentleman  up. 

The   Parlor  Maid   (puzzled).     Madam? 

Dolly.     The  old  gentleman  with  the  toothache. 

Philip.     The  landlord. 

The  Parlor  Maid.     Mr.  Crampton,  sir? 

Philip.     Is  his  name  Crampton? 

Dolly  (to  Philip).     Sounds  rheumaticky,  doesn't  it? 

Philip.     Chalkstones,  probably. 

Dolly  (over  her  shoulder,  to  the  parlor  maid).  Show 
Mr.  Crampstones  up.     (Goes  R.  to  writing-table  chair). 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  241 

The  Parlor  Maid  {correcting  her).  Mr.  Crampton, 
miss.     {She  goes.) 

Dolly  {repeating  it  to  herself  like  a  lesson). 
Crampton,  Crampton,  Crampton^  Crampton,  Crampton. 
{She  sits  dorvn  studiously  at  the  writing-table.)  I  must 
get  that  name  right,  or  Heaven  knows  what  I  shall  call 
him. 

Gloria.  Phil:  can  you  believe  such  a  horrible  thing 
as  that  about  our  father — what  mother  said  just  now.'' 

Philip.  Oh,  there  are  lots  of  people  of  that  kind. 
Old  Chamico  used  to  thrash  his  wife  and  daughters 
with  a  cartwhip. 

Dolly    {contemptuously).     Yes,    a    Portuguese! 

Philip.  When  you  come  to  men  who  are  brutes, 
there  is  much  in  common  between  the  Portuguese  and 
the  English  variety,  Doll.  Trust  my  knowledge  of 
human  nature.  {He  resumes  his  position  on  the  hearth- 
rug with  an  elderly  and  responsible  air.) 

Gloria  {with  angered  remorse).  I  don't  think  we 
shall  ever  play  again  at  our  old  game  of  guessing  what 
our  father  was  to  be  like.  Dolly:  are  you  sorry  for 
your  father — the   father  with  lots   of  money? 

Dolly.  Oh,  come!  What  about  your  father — the 
lonely  old  man  with  the  tender  aching  heart.''  He's 
pretty  well  burst  up,  I  think. 

Philip.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  governor  is 
an  exploded  superstition.  {Valentine  is  heard  talking 
to  somebody  outside  the  door.)     But  hark:  he  comes. 

Gloria  (nervously).     Who? 

Dolly.     Chalkstones. 

Philip.  Sh !  Attention.  {They  put  on  their  best 
manners.  Philip  adds  in  a  lower  voice  to  Gloria)  If 
he's  good  enough  for  the  lunch,  I'll  nod  to  Dolly;  and 
if  she  nods  to  you,  invite  him  straight  away. 

{Valentine  comes  back  with  his  landlord.  Mr.  Fer- 
gus Crampton  is  a  man  of  about  sixty,  tall,  hard  and 
stringy,    with    an    atrociously    obstinate,    ill    tempered, 


242  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

grasping  mouth,  and  a  querulously  dogmatic  voice. 
Withal  he  is  highly  nervous  and  sensitive,  judging  by 
his  thin  transparent  skin  marked  with  multitudinous 
lines,  and  his  slender  fingers.  His  consequent  capacity 
for  suffering  acutely  from  all  the  dislike  that  his  temper 
and  obstinacy  can  bring  upon  him  is  proved  by  his  wist- 
ful, wounded  eyes,  by  a  plaintive  note  in  his  voice,  a 
painful  want  of  confidence  in  his  welcome,  and  a  con- 
stant but  indifferently  successful  effort  to  correct  his 
natural  incivility  of  manner  and  proneness  to  take  of- 
fence. By  his  keen  brows  and  forehead  he  is  clearly  a 
shrewd  man;  and  there  is  no  sign  of  straitened  means 
or  commercial  diffidence  about  him:  he  is  well  dressed, 
and  would  be  classed  at  a  guess  as  a  prosperous  master 
manufacturer  in  a  business  inherited  from  an  old  family 
in  the  aristocracy  of  trade.  His  navy  blue  coat  is  not 
of  the  usual  fashionable  pattern.  It  is  not  exactly  a 
pilot's  coat;  but  it  is  cut  that  way,  double  breasted,  and 
with  stout  buttons  and  broad  lappels,  a  coat  for  a  ship- 
yard rather  than  a  counting  house.  He  has  taken  a 
fancy  to  Valentine,  who  cares  nothing  for  his  cross- 
ness of  grain  and  treats  him  with  a  sort  of  disrespectful 
humanity,  for  which  he  is  secretly  grateful.) 

Valentine.  May  I  introduce — this  is  Mr.  Crampton 
— Miss  Dorothy  Clandon,  Mr.  Philip  Clandon,  Miss 
Clandon.  (Crampton  stands  nervously  bowing.  They 
all  bow.)     Sit  down^  Mr.  Crampton. 

Dolly  {pointing  to  the  operating  chair).  That  is 
the  most  comfortable  chair,  Mr.  Ch — crampton. 

Crampton.  Thank  you;  but  won't  this  young  lady 
— (indicating  Gloria,  who  is  close  to  the  chair)  ? 

Gloria.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Crampton:  we  are  just 
going. 

Valentine  (bustling  him  across  to  the  chair  with 
good-humored  peremptoriness).  Sit  down,  sit  down. 
You're  tired. 

Crampton.     Well,  perhaps  as  I  am  considerably  the 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  243 

oldest  person  present,  I —  (i/e  finishes  the  sentence  by 
sitting  down  a  little  rheumatically  in  the  operating 
chair.  Meanwhile,  Philip,  having  studied  him  critically 
during  his  passage  across  the  room,  nods  to  Dolly;  and 
Dolly  nods  to  Gloria.) 

Gloria.  Mr.  Crampton:  we  understand  that  we  are 
preventing  JNIr.  Valentine  from  lunching  with  you  by 
taking  him  away  ourselves.  My  mother  would  be  very 
glad,  indeed,  if  you  would  come,  too. 

Crampton  (gratefully,  after  looking  at  her  ear- 
nestly for  a  moment).  Thank  you.  I  will  come  with 
pleasure. 

Gloria^       ,      ,.    ,         T Thank  you  very  much — er 

Dolly   >-      ^^        .  ^  .    -(  So  glad — er 

T^  I  murmuring).  I  t\  ^^   ^  .   j     t 

Philip  J  °'^    (^Delighted,  Im  sure — er 

{The  conversation  drops.  Gloria  and  Dolly  look  at 
one  another;  then  at  Valentine  and  Philip.  Valentine 
and  Philip,  unequal  to  the  occasion,  look  away  from  them 
at  one  another,  and  are  instantly  so  disconcerted  by 
catching  one  another's  eye,  that  they  look  bach  again 
and  catch  the  eyes  of  Gloria  and  Dolly.  Thus,  catching 
one  another  all  round,  they  all  look  at  nothing  and  are 
quite  at  a  loss.  Crampton  looks  about  him,  waiting  for 
them  to  begin.     The  silence  becomes  unbearable.) 

Dolly  (suddenly,  to  keep  things  going).  How  old 
are  you,  Mr.  Crampton? 

Gloria  (^hastily).  I  am  afraid  we  must  be  going, 
Mr.  Valentine.  It  is  understood,  then,  that  we  meet  at 
half  past  one.  (^She  makes  for  the  door.  Philip  goes 
with  her.      Valentine  retreats   to  the  bell.) 

Valentine.  Half  past  one.  (i7e  rings  the  bell.) 
Many  thanks.  (He  follows  Gloria  and  Philip  to  the 
door,  and  goes  out  with  them.) 

Dolly  (who  has  meanwhile  stolen  across  to  Cramp- 
ton). Make  him  give  you  gas.  It's  five  shillings  extra: 
but  it's  worth  it. 

Crampton    (amused).     Very   well.      (Looking   more 


244  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

earnestly  at  her.)  So  you  want  to  know  my  age,  do  you? 
I'm  fifty-seven. 

Dolly  {with  conviction).     You  look  it. 

Crampton   (grimly).     I  dare  say  I  do. 

Dolly.  What  are  you  looking  at  me  so  hard  for? 
Anything  wrong?     (She  feels  whether  her  hat  is  right.) 

Crampton.     You're  like  somebody. 

Dolly.     Who? 

Crampton.  W^ell,  you  have  a  curious  look  of  my 
mother. 

Dolly  (incredulously).  Your  mother!!!  Quite 
sure  you  don't  mean  your  daughter? 

Crampton  (suddenly  blackening  with  hate).  Yes: 
I'm  quite  sure  I  don't  mean  my  daughter. 

Dolly   (sympathetically).     Tooth  bad? 

Crampton.  No,  no :  nothing.  A  twinge  of  memory. 
Miss  Clandon,  not  of  toothache. 

Dolly.  Have  it  out.  "  Pluck  from  the  memory  a 
rooted  sorrow :  "  with  gas,  five  shillings  extra. 

Crampton  (vindicatively).  No,  not  a  sorrow.  An 
injury  that  was  done  me  once:  that's  all.  I  don't  for- 
get injuries;  and  I  don't  want  to  forget  them.  (His 
features  settle  into  an  implacable  frown.) 

(Re-enter  Philip:  to  look  for  Dolly.  He  comes  down 
behind  her  unobserved.) 

Dolly  (looking  critically  at  Crampton's  expression). 
I  don't  think  we  shall  like  you  when  you  are  brooding 
over  your  sorrows. 

Philip  (who  has  entered  the  room  unobserved,  and 
stolen  behind  her).  My  sister  means  well,  Mr.  Cramp- 
ton: but  she  is  indiscreet.  Now  DoUy,  outside!  (He 
takes  her  towards  the  door.) 

Dolly  (in  a  perfectly  audible  undertone).  He  says 
he's  only  fifty-seven;  and  he  thinks  me  the  image  of  his 
mother;  and  he  hates  his  daughter;  and —  (She  is  in- 
terrupted by  the  return  of  Valentine.) 

Valentine.     Miss  Clandon  has  gone  on. 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  245 

Philip.     Don't  forget  half  past  one. 

Dolly.  Mind  you  leave  Mr.  Crampton  enough  teeth 
to  eat  with.  {They  go  out.  Valentine  comes  down  to 
his  cabinet,  and  opens  it.) 

Crampton.  That's  a  spoiled  child,  Mr.  Valentine. 
That's  one  of  your  modern  products.  When  I  was  her 
age,  I  had  many  a  good  hiding  fresh  in  my  memory  to 
teach  me  manners. 

Valentine  {taking  up  his  dental  mirror  and  probe 
from  the  shelf  in  front  of  his  cabinet).  What  did  you 
think  of  her  sister? 

Crampton.     You  liked  her  better,  eh} 

Valentine  (rhapsodically).  She  struck  me  as  being 
—  {He  checks  himself,  and  adds,  prosaically)  How- 
ever, that's  not  business.  {He  places  himself  behind 
Grampian's  right  shoulder  and  assumes  his  professional 
tone.)  Open,  please.  {Crampton  opens  his  mouth. 
Valentine  puts  the  mirror  in,  and  examines  his  teeth.) 
Hm!  You  have  broken  that  one.  What  a  pity  to  spoil 
such  a  splendid  set  of  teeth!  Why  do  you  crack  nuts 
with  them.''  {He  withdraws  the  mirror,  and  comes  for- 
ward to  converse  with  Crampton.) 

Crampton.  I've  always  cracked  nuts  with  them: 
what  else  are  they  for.^  {Dogmatically.)  The  proper 
way  to  keep  teeth  good  is  to  give  them  plenty  of  use 
on  bones  and  nuts,  and  wash  them  every  day  with  soap — • 
plain  yellow  soap. 

Valentine.     Soap  !     WTiy  soap  ? 

Crampton.  I  began  using  it  as  a  boy  because  I  was 
made  to;  and  I've  used  it  ever  since.  And  I  never  had 
toothache  in  my  life. 

Valentine.     Don't  you  find  it  rather  nasty.'' 

Crampton.  I  found  that  most  things  that  were  good 
for  me  were  nasty.  But  I  was  taught  to  put  up  with 
them,  and  made  to  put  up  with  them.  I'm  used  to  it 
now:  in  fact,  I  like  the  taste  when  the  soap  is  really 
good. 


246  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

Valentine  (snaking  a  wry  face  in  spite  of  himself). 
You  seem  to  have  been  very  carefully  educated,  Mr. 
Crampton. 

Crampton  (grimly).     I  wasn't  spoiled,  at  all  events. 

Valentine  {smiling  a  little  to  himself).  Are  you 
quite  sure? 

Crampton.     What  d'y'  mean? 

Valentine.  Well,  your  teeth  are  good,  I  admit. 
But  I've  seen  just  as  good  in  very  self-indulgent  mouths. 
{He  goes  to  the  ledge  of  cabinet  and  changes  the  probe 
for  another  one.) 

Crampton.  It's  not  the  effect  on  the  teeth:  it's  the 
effect  on  the  character. 

Valentine  {placably).  Oh,  the  character,  I  see. 
{He  recommences  operations.)  A  little  wider,  please. 
Hm!  That  one  will  have  to  come  out:  it's  past  saving. 
{He  withdraws  the  probe  and  again  comes  to  the  side 
of  the  chair  to  converse.)  Don't  be  alarmed:  you  shan't 
feel  anything.     I'll  give  you  gas. 

Crampton.  Rubbish,  man:  I  want  none  of  your  gas. 
Out  with  it.  People  were  taught  to  bear  necessary  pain 
in  my  day. 

Valentine.  Oh,  if  you  like  being  hurt,  all  right. 
I'll  hurt  you  as  much  as  you  like,  without  any  extra 
charge  for  the  beneficial  effect  on  your  character. 

Crampton  {rising  and  glaring  at  him).  Young  man: 
you  owe  me  six  weeks'  rent. 

Valentine.     I  do. 

Crampton.     Can  you  pay  me? 

Valentine.     No. 

Crampton  {satisfied  with  his  advantage).  I  thought 
not.  How  soon  d'y'  think  you'll  be  able  to  pay  me  if  you 
have  no  better  manners  than  to  make  game  of  your  pa- 
tients?    {He  sits  down  again.) 

Valentine.  My  good  sir:  my  patients  haven't  all 
formed  their  characters  on  kitchen  soap. 

Crampton  {suddenly  gripping  him  by  the  arm  as  he 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  247 

turns  away  again  to  the  cabinet).  So  much  the  worse 
for  them.  I  tell  you  you  don't  understand  my  charac- 
ter. If  I  could  spare  all  my  teeth,  I'd  make  you  pull 
them  out  one  after  another  to  shew  you  what  a  prop- 
erly hardened  man  can  go  through  with  when  he's  made 
up  his  mind  to  it.  {He  nods  at  him  to  enforce  the  effect 
of  this  declaration,  and  releases  him.) 

Valentine  (his  careless  pleasantry  quite  unruffled). 
And  you  want  to  be  more  hardened,  do  you? 

Crampton.     Yes. 

Valentine  (strolling  away  to  the  bell).  Well, 
you're  quite  hard  enough  for  me  already — as  a  land- 
lord. (Crampton  receives  this  with  a  growl  of  grim 
humor.  Valentine  rings  the  bell,  and  remarks  in  a 
cheerful,  casual  way,  whilst  waiting  for  it  to  be  an- 
swered.) Why  did  you  never  get  married,  Mr.  Cramp- 
ton.''  A  wife  and  children  would  have  taken  some  of 
the  hardness  out  of  you. 

Crampton  (with  unexpected  ferocity).  What  the 
devil  is  that  to  you.''  (The  parlor  maid  appears  at  the 
door.) 

Valentine  (politely).  Some  warm  water,  please. 
(She  retires:  and  Valentine  comes  back  to  the  cabinet, 
not  at  all  put  out  by  Crampton's  rudeness,  and  carries 
on  the  conversation  whilst  he  selects  a  forceps  and  places 
it  ready  to  his  hand  with  a  gag  and  a  drinking  glass.) 
You  were  asking  me  what  the  devil  that  was  to  me. 
Well,  I  have  an  idea  of  getting  married  myself. 

Crampton  (with  grumbling  irony).  Naturally,  sir, 
naturally.  When  a  young  man  has  come  to  his  last 
farthing,  and  is  within  twenty-four  hours  of  having  his 
furniture  distrained  upon  by  his  landlord,  he  marries. 
I've  noticed  that  before.  Well,  marry;  and  be  mis- 
erable. 

Valentine.     Oh,  come,  what  do  you  know  about  it? 

Crampton.      I'm  not  a  bachelor. 

Valentine.      Then  there  is  a  Mrs.  Crampton? 


248  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  I 

Crampton  (wincing  with  a  pang  of  resentment). 
Yes — damn  her ! 

Valentine  {unperturbed).  Hm!  A  father,  too, 
perhaps,  as  well  as  a  husband,  Mr.  Crampton? 

Crampton.     Three  children. 

Valentine    {politely).     Damn   them? — eh? 

Crampton  {jealously).  No,  sir:  the  children  are  as 
much  mine  as  hers.  {The  parlor  maid  brings  in  a  jug 
of  hot  water.) 

Valentine.  Thank  you.  {He  takes  the  jug  from 
her,  and  brings  it  to  the  cabinet,  continuing  in  the  same 
idle  strain)  I  really  should  like  to  know  your  family, 
Mr.  Crampton,  {The  parlor  maid  goes  out:  and  he 
pours  some  hot  water  into  the  drinking  glass.) 

Crampton.  Sorry  I  can't  introduce  you,  sir.  I'm 
happy  to  say  that  I  don't  know  where  they  are,  and 
don't  care,  so  long  as  they  keep  out  of  my  way.  (  Valen- 
tine, with  a  hitch  of  his  eyebrows  and  shoulders,  drops 
the  forceps  with  a  clink  into  the  glass  of  hot  water.) 
You  needn't  warm  that  thing  to  use  on  me.  I'm  not 
afraid  of  the  cold  steel.  {Valentine  stoops  to  arrange 
the  gas  pump  and  cylinder  beside  the  chair.)  What's 
that  heavy  thing? 

Valentine.  Oh,  never  mind.  Something  to  put  my 
foot  on,  to  get  the  necessary  purchase  for  a  good  pull. 
{Crampton  looks  alarmed  in  spite  of  himself.  Valen- 
tine stands  upright  and  places  the  glass  with  forceps 
in  it  ready  to  his  hand,  chatting  on  with  provoking 
indifference.)  And  so  you  advise  me  not  to  get 
married,  Mr.  Crampton?  {He  stoops  to  fit  the  handle 
on  the  apparatus  by  which  the  chair  is  raised  and 
lowered.) 

Crampton  {irritably).  I  advise  you  to  get  my  tooth 
out  and  have  done  reminding  me  of  my  wife.  Come 
along,  man.  {He  grips  the  arms  of  the  chair  and 
braces  himself.) 

Valentine   {pausing,  with  his  hand  on  the  lever,  to 


Act  I  You  Never  Can  Tell  249 

look  up  at  him  and  say).  What  do  you  bet  that  I  don't 
get  that  tooth  out  without  your  feeling  it? 

Crampton.  Your  six  weeks'  rent,  young  man. 
Don't  you  gammon  me. 

Valentine  {jumping  at  the  bet  and  winding  him 
aloft  vigorously).  Done!  Are  you  ready?  (Cramp- 
ton,  who  has  lost  his  grip  of  the  chair  in  his  alarm  at 
its  sudden  ascent,  folds  his  arms:  sits  stiffly  upright: 
and  prepares  for  the  worst.  Valentine  lets  down  the 
back  of  the  chair  to  an  obtuse  angle.) 

Crampton  (clutching  at  the  arms  of  the  chair  as  he 
falls  back).  Take  care  man.  I'm  quite  helpless  in 
this  po 

Valentine  (deftly  stopping  him  with  the  gag,  and 
snatching  up  the  mouthpiece  of  the  gas  machine).  You'll 
be  more  helpless  presently.  (He  presses  the  mouthpiece 
over  Crampton's  mouth  and  nose,  leaning  over  his  chest 
so  as  to  hold  his  head  and  shoulders  well  down  on  the 
chair.  Crampton  makes  an  inarticulate  sound  in  the 
mouthpiece  and  tries  to  lay  hands  on  Valentine,  whom  he 
supposes  to  be  in  front  of  him.  After  a  moment  his  arms 
wave  aimlessly,  then  subside  and  drop.  He  is  quite  in- 
sensible. Valentine,  with  an  exclamation  of  somewhat 
preoccupied  triumph,  throws  aside  the  mouthpiece 
quickly:  picks  the  forceps  adroitly  from  the  glass:  and 
— the  curtain  falls.) 

end  of  act  I. 


ACT    II 

On  the  terrace  at  the  Marine  Hotel.  It  is  a  square 
flagged  platform,  with  a  parapet  of  heavy  oil  jar  pilas- 
ters supporting  a  broad  stone  coping  on  the  outer  edge, 
which  stands  up  over  the  sea  like  a  cliff.  The  head 
waiter  of  the  establishment,  busy  laying  napkins  on  a 
luncheon  table  with  his  back  to  the  sea,  has  the  hotel  on 
his  right,  and  on  his  left,  in  the  corner  nearest  the  sea, 
the  flight  of  steps  leading  down  to  the  beach. 

When  he  looks  down  the  terrace  in  front  of  him  he 
sees  a  little  to  his  left  a  solitary  guest,  a  middle-aged 
gentleman  sitting  on  a  chair  of  iron  laths  at  a  little 
iron  table  with  a  bowl  of  lump  sugar  and  three  wasps 
on  it,  reading  the  Standard,  with  his  umbrella  up  to  de- 
fend him  from  the  sun,  which,  in  August  and  at  less 
than  an  hour  after  noon,  is  toasting  his  protended  in- 
steps. Just  opposite  him,  at  the  hotel  side  of  the  ter- 
race, there  is  a  garden  seat  of  the  ordinary  esplanade 
pattern.  Access  to  the  hotel  for  visitors  is  by  an  entrance 
in  the  middle  of  its  fagade,  reached  by  a  couple  of 
steps  on  a  broad  square  of  raised  pavement.  Nearer  the 
parapet  there  lurks  a  way  to  the  kitchen,  masked  by  a 
little  trellis  porch.  The  table  at  which  the  waiter  is 
occupied  is  a  long  one,  set  across  the  terrace  with 
covers  and  chairs  for  five,  two  at  each  side  and  one  at 
the  end  next  the  hotel.  Against  the  parapet  another 
table  is  prepared  as  a  buffet  to  serve  from. 

The  waiter  is  a  remarkable  person  in  his  way.  A  silky 
old  man,  white-haired  and  delicate  looking,  but  so  cheer- 
ful and  contented  that  in  his  encouraging  presence 
ambition  stands  rebuked  as  vulgarity,  and  imagination 

250 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  251 

as  treason  to  the  abounding  sufficiency  and  interest  of 
the  actual.  He  has  a  certain  expression  peculiar  to  men 
who  have  been  eoctraordinarily  successful  in  their  call- 
ings, and  who,  whilst  aware  of  the  vanity  of  success, 
are  untouched  by  envy. 

The  gentleman  at  the  iron  table  is  not  dressed  for 
the  seaside.  He  wears  his  London  frock  coat  and 
gloves;  and  his  tall  silk  hat  is  on  the  table  beside  the 
sugar  bowl.  The  excellent  condition  and  quality  of  these 
garments,  the  gold-rimmed  folding  spectacles  through 
which  he  is  reading  the  Standard,  and  the  Times  at  his 
elbow  overlying  the  local  paper,  all  testify  to  his  re- 
spectability. He  is  about  fifty,  clean  shaven,  and  close- 
cropped,  with  the  corners  of  his  mouth  turned  down 
purposely,  as  if  he  suspected  them  of  wanting  to  turn 
up,  and  was  determined  not  to  let  them  have  their  way. 
He  has  large  expansive  ears,  cod  colored  eyes,  and  a 
brow  kept  resolutely  wide  open,  as  if,  again,  he  had 
resolved  in  his  youth  to  be  truthful,  magnanimous,  and 
incorruptible,  but  had  never  succeeded  in  making  that 
habit  of  mind  automatic  and  unconscious.  Still,  he  is 
by  no  means  to  be  laughed  at.  There  is  no  sign  of  stu- 
pidity or  infirmity  of  will  about  him:  on  the  contrary, 
he  would  pass  anywhere  at  sight  as  a  man  of  more  than 
average  professional  capacity  and  responsibility.  Just 
at  present  he  is  enjoying  the  weather  and  the  sea  too 
much  to  be  out  of  patience;  but  he  has  exhausted  all  the 
news  in  his  papers  and  is  at  present  reduced  to  the 
advertisements,  which  are  not  sufficiently  succulent  to 
induce  him  to  persevere  with  them. 

The  Gentleman  {yawning  and  giving  up  the  paper 
as  a  bad  job).     Waiter! 

Waiter.     Sir?  (coming  down  C.) 

The  Gentleman.  Are  you  quite  sure  Mrs.  Clandon 
is  coming  back  before  lunch? 

Waiter.     Quite  sure,  sir.     She  expects  you  at  a  quar- 


252  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

ter  to  one,  sir.  (^The  gentleman,  soothed  at  once  by  the 
waiter's  voice,  looks  at  him  with  a  lazy  smile.  It  is 
a  quiet  voice,  with  a  gentle  melody  in  it  that  gives  sym- 
pathetic interest  to  his  most  commonplace  remark;  and 
he  speaks  with  the  sweetest  propriety,  neither  dropping 
his  aitches  nor  misplacing  them,  nor  committing  any 
other  vulgarism.  He  looks  at  his  watch  as  he  continues) 
Not  that  yet,  sir,  is  it?  12:43,  sir.  Only  two  minutes 
more  to  wait,  sir.     Nice  morning,  sir? 

The  Gentlkman.     Yes:  very  fresh  after  London. 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir:  so  all  our  visitors  say,  sir.  Very 
nice  family,  Mrs.  Clandon's,  sir. 

The  Gentleman.     You  like  them,  do  you? 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir.  They  have  a  free  way  with  them 
that  is  very  taking,  sir,  very  taking  indeed,  sir:  espe- 
cially the  young  lady  and  gentleman. 

The  Gentleman.  Miss  Dorothea  and  Mr.  Philip,  I 
suppose. 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir.  The  young  lady,  in  giving  an  or- 
der, or  the  like  of  that,  will  say,  "  Remember,  William, 
we  came  to  this  hotel  on  your  accoimt,  having  heard  what 
a  perfect  waiter  you  are."  The  young  gentleman  will  tell 
me  that  I  remind  him  strongly  of  his  father  {the  gentle- 
man starts  at  this)  and  that  he  expects  me  to  act  by  him 
as  such.  {Soothing,  sunny  cadence.)  Oh,  very  pleas- 
ant, sir,  very  affable  and  pleasant  indeed! 

The  Gentleman.  You  like  his  father!  {He  laughs 
at  the  notion.) 

Waiter.  Oh,  we  must  not  take  what  they  say  too 
seriously,  sir.  Of  course,  sir,  if  it  were  true,  the  young 
lady  would  have  seen  the  resemblance,  too,  sir. 

The  Gentleman.     Did  she? 

Waiter.  No,  sir.  She  thought  me  like  the  bust 
of  Shakespear  in  Stratford  Church,  sir.  That  is  why 
she  calls  me  William,  sir.  My  real  name  is  Walter, 
sir.  {He  turns  to  go  back  to  the  table,  and  sees  Mrs. 
Clandon  coming  up  to  the  terrace  from  the  beach  by  the 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  253 

steps.)  Here  is  Mrs.  Clandon^  sir.  (To  Mrs.  Clandon, 
in  an  unobtrusively  confidential  tone)  Gentleman  for 
you,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  We  shall  have  two  more  gentlemen 
at  lunch,  William. 

Waiter.  Right,  ma'am.  Thank  you,  ma'am.  {He 
withdraws  into  the  hotel.  Mrs.  Clandon  comes  forward 
looking  round  for  her  visitor,  but  passes  over  the  gentle- 
man without  any  sign  of  recognition.) 

The  Gentleman  (peering  at  her  quaintly  from  un- 
der the  umbrella).     Don't  you  know  me? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (incredulously,  looking  hard  at  him). 
Are  you  Finch  McComas? 

McComas.  Can't  you  guess?  (He  shuts  the  um- 
brella; puts  it  aside;  and  jocularly  plants  himself  with 
his  hands  on  his  hips  to  be  inspected.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  believe  you  are.  (She  gives  him 
her  hand.  The  shake  that  ensues  is  that  of  old  friends 
after  a  long  separation.)     Where's  your  beard? 

McComas  (with  humorous  solemnity).  Would  you 
employ  a  solicitor  with  a  beard? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (pointing  to  the  silk  hat  on  the  table). 
Is  that  your  hat? 

McComas.  Would  you  employ  a  solicitor  with  a  som- 
brero ? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  have  thought  of  you  all  these 
eighteen  years  with  the  beard  and  the  sombrero.  (She 
sits  down  on  the  garden  seat.  McComas  takes  his  chair 
again.)  Do  you  go  to  the  meetings  of  the  Dialectical 
Society  still? 

McComas  (gravely).  I  do  not  frequent  meetings 
now. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Finch:  I  see  what  has  happened. 
You  have  become  respectable. 

McComas.     Haven't    you? 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Not  a  bit. 

McComas.     You  hold  to  your  old  opinions  still? 


254  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

Mrs.  Clandon.     As  firmly  as  ever. 

McCoMAS.  Bless  me!  And  you  are  still  ready  to 
make  speeches  in  public,  in  spite  of  your  sex  (Mrs. 
Clandon  nods)  ;  to  insist  on  a  married  woman's  right  to 
her  own  separate  property  (she  nods  again)  ;  to  cham- 
pion Darwin's  view  of  the  origin  of  species  and  John 
Stuart  Mill's  essay  on  Liberty  (nod)  ;  to  read  Huxley, 
Tyndall  and  George  Eliot  (three  nods);  and  to  de- 
mand University  degrees,  the  opening  of  the  profes- 
sions, and  the  parliamentary  franchise  for  women  as 
well  as  men? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (resolutely).  Yes:  I  have  not  gone 
back  one  inch;  and  I  have  educated  Gloria  to  take  up 
my  work  where  I  left  it.  That  is  what  has  brought  me 
back  to  England:  I  felt  that  I  had  no  right  to  bury  her 
alive  in  Madeira — my  St.  Helena,  Finch.  I  suppose  she 
will  be  howled  at  as  I  was ;  but  she  is  prepared  for  that. 

McComas.  Howled  at!  My  dear  good  lady:  there 
is  nothing  in  any  of  those  views  now-a-days  to  prevent 
her  from  marrying  a  bishop.  You  reproached  me  just 
now  for  having  become  respectable.  You  were  wrong: 
I  hold  to  our  old  opinions  as  strongly  as  ever.  I  don't 
go  to  church;  and  I  don't  pretend  I  do.  I  call  myself 
what  I  am:  a  Philosophic  Radical,  standing  for  liberty 
and  the  rights  of  the  individual,  as  I  learnt  to  do  from 
my  master  Herbert  Spencer.  Am  I  howled  at?  No: 
I'm  indulged  as  an  old  fogey.  I'm  out  of  everything, 
because  I've  refused  to  bow  the  knee  to  Socialism. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (shocked).     Socialism. 

McComas.  Yes:  Socialism.  That's  what  Miss  Gloria 
will  be  up  to  her  ears  in  before  the  end  of  the  month  if 
you  let  her  loose  here. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (emphatically).  But  I  can  prove  to 
her  that  Socialism  is  a  fallacy. 

McComas  (touchingly).  It  is  by  proving  that,  Mrs. 
Clandon,  that  I  have  lost  all  my  young  disciples.  Be 
careful  what  you  do:  let  her  go  her  own  way.      (With 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  255 

some  bitterness.)  We're  old-fashioned:  the  world  thinks 
it  has  left  us  behind.  There  is  only  one  place  in  aU 
England  where  your  opinions  would  still  pass  as  ad- 
vanced. 

Mrs.  Clandon  {scornfully  unconvinced).  The 
Church,  perhaps? 

McCoMAs.  No,  the  theatre.  And  now  to  business! 
Why  have  you  made  me  come  down  here? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Well,  partly  because  I  wanted  to  see 
you 


McCoMAS   (with  good-humored  irony).     Thanks. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  — and  partly  because  I  want  you 
to  explain  everything  to  the  children.  They  know  noth- 
ing; and  now  that  we  have  come  back  to  England,  it  is 
impossible  to  leave  them  in  ignorance  any  longer. 
(Agitated.)  Finch:  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  tell  them. 
I —  (She  is  interrupted  by  the  trvins  and  Gloria.  Dolly 
comes  tearing  up  the  steps,  racing  Philip,  who  combines 
a  terrific  speed  with  unhurried  propriety  of  bearing 
which,  however,  costs  him  the  race,  as  Dolly  reaches 
her  mother  first  and  almost  upsets  the  garden  seat  by 
the  precipitancy  of  her  arrival.) 

Dolly  (breathless).  It's  all  right,  mamma.  The 
dentist  is  coming;  and  he's  bringing  his  old  man. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Dolly,  dear:  don't  you  see  Mr.  Mc- 
Comas?     (Mr.  McComas  rises,  smilingly.) 

Dolly  (her  face  falling  with  the  most  disparagingly 
obvious  disappointment).  This!  WTiere  are  the  flow- 
ing locks? 

Philip  (seconding  her  warmly).  Where  the  beard? 
- — the  cloak? — the  poetic  exterior? 

Dolly.  Oh,  Mr.  McComas,  you've  gone  and  spoiled 
yourself.     Why  didn't  you  wait  till  we'd  seen  you? 

McCoMAs  (taken  aback,  but  rallying  his  humor  to 
meet  the  emergency).  Because  eighteen  years  is  too 
long  for  a  solicitor  to  go  without  having  his  hair  cut. 

Gloria    (at  the  other  side   of  McComas).     How  do 


256  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

you  do,  Mr.  McComas?  (//e  turns;  and  she  takes  his 
hand  and  presses  it,  with  a  frank  straight  look  into  his 
eyes.)     We  are  glad  to  meet  you  at  last. 

McCoMAS.  Miss  Gloria,  I  presume?  (Gloria  smiles 
assent,  and  releases  his  hand  after  a  final  pressure.  She 
then  retires  behind  the  garden  seat,  leaning  over  the 
back  beside  Mrs.  Clandon.)     And  this  young  gentleman? 

Philip.  I  was  christened  in  a  comparatively  prosaic 
mood.     My  name  is 

Dolly  (completing  his  sentence  for  him  declama- 
torily).     "  Norval.     On  the   Grampian  hills  " 

Philip  (declaiming  gravely).  "  My  father  feeds  his 
flock,  a  frugal  swain  " 

Mrs.  Clandon  (remonstrating).  Dear,  dear  chil- 
dren :  don't  be  silly.  Everything  is  so  new  to  them  here. 
Finch,  that  they  are  in  the  wildest  spirits.  They  think 
every  Englishman  they  meet  is  a  joke. 

Dolly.     Well,  so  he  is :  it's  not  our  fault. 

Philip.  My  knowledge  of  human  nature  is  fairly 
extensive,  Mr.  McComas ;  but  I  find  it  impossible  to  take 
the  inhabitants  of  this  island  seriously. 

McCoMAS.  I  presume,  sir,  you  are  Master  Philip 
(offering  his  hand)  ? 

Philip  (taking  McComas' s  hand  and  looking  solemn- 
ly at  him).  I  was  Master  Philip — was  so  for  many 
years;  just  as  you  were  once  Master  Finch.  (He  gives 
his  hand  a  single  shake  and  drops  it;  then  turns  arvay, 
exclaiming  meditatively)  How  strange  it  is  to  look  back 
on  our  boyhood!  (McComas  stares  after  him,  not  at  all 
pleased.) 

Dolly  (to  Mrs.  Clandon).     Has  Finch  had  a  drink? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (remonstrating).  Dearest:  Mr.  Mc- 
Comas will  lunch  with  us. 

Dolly.  Have  you  ordered  for  seven?  Don't  forget 
the  old  gentleman. 

Mrs,  Clandon.  I  have  not  forgotten  him,  dear. 
What  is  his  name? 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  257 

Dolly.  Chalkstones.  He'll  be  here  at  half  past  one. 
(To  McComas.)     Are  we  like  what  you  expected? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (changing  her  tone  to  a  more  earnest 
one).  Dolly:  Mr.  McComas  has  something  more  serious 
than  that  to  tell  you.  Children:  I  have  asked  my  old 
friend  to  answer  the  question  you  asked  this  morning. 
He  is  your  father's  friend  as  well  as  mine;  and  he  will 
tell  you  the  story  more  fairly  than  I  could.  (Turning 
her  head  from  them  to  Gloria.)  Gloria:  are  you  sat- 
isfied .'' 

Gloria  (gravely  attentive).  Mr.  McComas  is  very 
kind. 

McComas  (nervously).  Not  at  all,  my  dear  young 
lady :  not  at  all.  At  the  same  time,  this  is  rather  sudden. 
I  was  hardly  prepared — er 

DoLLT  (suspiciously).  Oh,  we  don't  want  anything 
prepared. 

Philip   (exhorting  him).     Tell  us  the  truth. 

Dolly   (emphatically).     Bald  headed. 

McComas  (nettled).  I  hope  you  intend  to  take  what 
I  have  to  say  seriously. 

Philip  (rvith  profound  mock  gravity).  I  hope  it  will 
deserve  it,  Mr.  McComas.  My  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture teaches  me  not  to  expect  too  much. 

Mrs.   Clandon    (remonstrating).     Phil 

Philip.  Yes,  mother,  all  right.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mr.  McComas :  don't  mind  us. 

Dolly   (in  conciliation).     We  mean  well. 

Philip.     Shut  up,  both. 

(Dolly  holds  her  lips.  McComas  takes  a  chair  from 
the  luncheon  table;  places  it  between  the  little  table  and 
the  garden  seat  with  Dolly  on  his  right  and  Philip  on 
his  left;  and  settles  himself  in  it  with  the  air  of  a  man 
about  to  begin  a  long  communication.  The  Clandons 
tvatch  him  expectantly.) 

McComas.     Ahem!     Your  father 

Dolly  (interrupting).     How  old  is  he? 


258  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

Philip.     Sli ! 

Mrs.  Clandon  {softly).  Dear  Dolly:  don't  let  us 
interrupt  Mr.  McComas. 

McCoMAs  (^emphatically).  Thank  you^  Mrs.  Clan- 
don. Thank  you.  {To  Dolly.)  Your  father  is  fifty- 
seven. 

Dolly  {with  a  bound,  startled  and  excited).  Fifty- 
seven  !    Where  does  he  live  ? 

Mrs.   Clandon    {remonstrating).     Dolly,  Dolly! 

McCoMAs  {stopping  her).  Let  me  answer  that,  Mrs. 
Clandon.  The  answer  will  surprise  you  considerabl}^ 
He  lives  in  this  town.  {Mrs.  Clandon  rises.  She  and 
Gloria  look  at  one  another  in  the  greatest  consterna- 
tion.) 

Dolly  {rvith  conviction).  I  knew  it!  Phil:  Chalk- 
stones  is  our  father. 

McCoMAS.     Chalkstones ! 

Dolly.  Oh,  Crampstones,  or  whatever  it  is.  He  said 
I  was  like  his  mother.  I  knew  he  must  mean  his  daugh- 
ter. 

Philip  {very  seriously).  Mr.  McComas:  I  desire 
to  consider  your  feelings  in  every  possible  way:  but  I 
warn  you  that  if  you  stretch  the  long  arm  of  coincidence 
to  the  length  of  telling  me  that  Mr.  Crampton  of  this 
town  is  my  father,  I  shall  decline  to  entertain  the  in- 
formation   for    a    moment. 

McCoMAS.     And  pray  why? 

Philip.  Because  I  have  seen  the  gentleman;  and  he 
is  entirely  unfit  to  be  my  father,  or  Dolly's  father,  or 
Gloria's  father,  or  my  mother's  husband. 

McCoMAs.  Oh,  indeed!  Well,  sir,  let  me  tell  you 
that  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  he  is  your  father,  and 
your  sisters'  father,  and  Mrs.  Clandon's  husband.  Now! 
Wliat  have  you  to  say  to  that? 

Dolly  {whimpering).  You  needn't  be  so  cross. 
Crampton  isn't  your  father. 

Philip.     Mr.    McComas:   your   conduct   is   heartless. 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  259 

Here  you  find  a  family  enjoying  the  unspeakable  peace 
and  freedom  of  being  orphans.  We  have  never  seen  the 
face  of  a  relative — never  known  a  claim  except  the  claim 
of  freely  chosen  friendship.  And  now  you  wish  tcr 
thrust  into  the  most  intimate  relationship  with  us  a  man 
whom  we  don't  know 

Dolly  (vehemently).  An  awful  old  man!  (re- 
proachfully) And  you  began  as  if  you  had  quite  a  nice 
father  for  us. 

McCoMAs  (angrily).  How  do  jou  know  that  he  is 
not  nice.^  And  what  right  have  you  to  choose  your  own 
father?  (raising  his  voice.)  Let  me  tell  you.  Miss  Clan- 
don,  that  you  are  too  young  to 

Dolly  (interrupting  him  suddenly  and  eagerly). 
Stop,  I  forgot!     Has  he  any  money .^ 

McCoMAS.     He  has  a  great  deal  of  money. 

Dolly  (delighted).  Oh,  what  did  I  always  say, 
Phil? 

Philip.  Dolly:  we  have  perhaps  been  condemning 
the  old  man  too  hastily.     Proceed,  ]\Ir.  McComas. 

McCoMAS.  I  shall  not  proceed,  sir.  I  am  too  hurt, 
too  shocked,  to  proceed. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (urgently).  Finch:  do  you  realize 
what  is  happening?  Do  you  understand  that  my  chil- 
dren have  invited  that  man  to  lunch,  and  that  he  will  be 
here  in  a  few  moments? 

McCoMAs  (completely  upset).  AVhat!  do  you  mean 
— am  I  to  understand — is  it 

Philip  (impressively) .  Steady,  Finch.  Think  it  out 
slowly  and  carefully.     He's  coming — coming  to  lunch. 

Gloria.  Which  of  us  is  to  tell  him  the  truth?  Have 
you  thought  of  that? 

Mrs.   Clandon.      Finch:  you  must  tell  him. 

Dolly.  Oh,  Finch  is  no  good  at  telling  things. 
Look  at  the  mess  he  has  made  of  telling  us. 

McCoMAS.  I  have  not  been  allowed  to  speak.  I  pro- 
test against  this. 


260  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

Dolly  (takijig  his  arm  coaxingly).  Dear  Finch: 
don't  be  cross. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Gloria:  let  us  go  in.  He  may  ar- 
rive at  any  moment. 

Gloria  (proudly) .  Do  not  stir^  mother.  I  shall  not 
stir.     We  must  not  run  away. 

Mrs.  Clandon  {delicately  rebuking  her).  My  dear: 
we  cannot  sit  down  to  lunch  just  as  we  are.  We  shall 
come  back  again.  We  must  have  no  bravado.  {Gloria 
winces,  and  goes  into  the  hotel  without  a  word.)  Come, 
Dolly.  {As  she  goes  into  the  hotel  door,  the  waiter 
comes  out  with  plates,  etc.,  for  two  additional  covers  on 
a  tray.) 

Waiter.     Gentlemen  come  yet,  ma'am? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Two  more  to  come  yet,  thank  you. 
They  will  be  here,  immediately.  {She  goes  into  the 
hotel.     The  waiter  takes  his  tray  to  the  service  table.) 

Philip.  I  have  an  idea.  Mr.  McComas:  this  com- 
munication should  be  made,  should  it  not,  by  a  man  of 
infinite  tact.'' 

Mc Comas.      It  will  require  tact,  certainly. 

Philip.  Good !  Dolly :  whose  tact  were  you  noticing 
only  this  morning.'' 

Dolly  {seizing  the  idea  with  rapture).  Oh,  yes,  I 
declare !     William ! 

Philip.      The  very  man!     {Calling)  William! 

Waiter.      Coming,  sir. 

McComas  {horrified).  The  waiter!  Stop,  stop!  I 
will  not  permit  this.     I 

Waiter  {presenting  himself  between  Philip  and  Mc- 
Comas). Yes,  sir.  {McComas's  complexion  fades  into 
stone  grey;  and  all  movement  and  expression  desert  his 
eyes.     He  sits  down  stupefied.) 

Philip.  William:  you  remember  my  request  to  you 
to  regard  me  as  your  son? 

Waiter  {with  respectful  indulgence).  Yes,  sir. 
Anything  you  please,  sir. 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  261 

Philip.  William:  at  the  very  outset  of  your  career 
as  my  father,  a  rival  has  appeared  on  the  scene. 

Waiter.  Your  real  father,  sir?  Well,  that  was  to 
be  expected,  sooner  or  later,  sir,  wasn't  it?  (Turning 
with  a  happy  smile  to  McComas.)      Is  it  you,  sir? 

McCoMAs  (renerved  by  indignation).  Certainly  not. 
My  children  know  how  to  behave  themselves. 

Philip.  No,  William:  this  gentleman  was  very 
nearly  my  father:  he  wooed  my  mother,  but  wooed  her 
in  vain. 

McCoMAS  (outraged).     Well,  of  all  the 

Philip.  Sh !  Consequently,  he  is  only  our  solicitor. 
Do  you  know  one  Crampton,  of  this  town? 

Waiter.  Cock-eyed  Crampton,  sir,  of  the  Crooked 
Billet,  is  it? 

Philip.  I  don't  know.  Finch:  does  he  keep  a  public 
house? 

McComas  (rising  scandalised).  No,  no,  no.  Your 
father,  sir,  is  a  well-known  yacht  builder,  an  eminent 
man  here. 

Waiter  (impressed) .  Oh,  beg  pardon,  sir,  I'm  sure. 
A  son  of  Mr.  Crampton 's  !     Dear  me ! 

Philip.      Mr.   Crampton  is  coming  to  lunch  with  us. 

Waiter  (puzzled).  Yes,  sir.  (Diplomatically.) 
Don't  usually  lunch  with  his  family,  perhaps,  sir? 

Philip  (impressively).  William:  he  does  not  know 
that  we  are  his  family.  He  has  not  seen  us  for  eighteen 
years.  He  won't  know  us.  (To  emphasize  the  com- 
munication  he  seats  himself  on  the  iron  table  with  a 
spring,  and  looks  at  the  waiter  with  his  lips  compressed 
and  his  legs  swinging.) 

Dolly.  We  want  you  to  break  the  news  to  him, 
William. 

Waiter.  But  I  should  think  he'd  guess  when  he 
sees  your  mother,  miss.  (Philip's  legs  become  motion- 
less at  this  elucidation.  He  contemplates  the  waiter 
raptly.) 


2G2  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  n 

Dolly    (daszled).     I   never  thought   of   that. 

Philip.  Nor  I.  {Coming  off  the  table  and  turning 
reproachfully  on  McComas.)      Nor  you. 

Dolly.     And  you  a  solicitor ! 

Philip.  Finch:  Your  professional  incompetence  is 
appalling.     William:  your  sagacity  puts  us  all  to  shame. 

Dolly.      You  really  are  like  Shakespear^  William. 

Waiter.  Not  at  all,  sir.  Don't  mention  it,  miss. 
Most  happy,  I'm  sure,  sir.  (Goes  back  modestly  to  the 
luncheon  table  and  lays  the  two  additional  covers,  one 
at  the  end  next  the  steps,  and  the  other  so  as  to  make  a 
third  on  the  side  furthest  from  the  balustrade.^ 

Philip  (abruptly).  Finch:  come  and  wash  your 
hands.     (Seizes  his  arm  and  leads  him  toward  the  hotel.) 

JNIcCoMAS.  I  am  thoroughly  vexed  and  hurt,  Mr. 
Clandon 

Philip  (interrupting  him).  You  will  get  used  to  us. 
Come,  Dolly.  (McComas  shakes  him  off  and  marches 
into  the  hotel.  Philip  follows  tvith  unruffled  com- 
posure.) 

Dolly  (turning  for  a  moment  on  the  steps  as  she 
follows  them).  Keep  your  wits  about  you,  William. 
There  will  be  fire-works. 

Waiter.  Riglit,  miss.  You  may  depend  on  me,  miss. 
(She  goes  into  the  hotel.) 

(Valentine  comes  lightly  up  the  steps  from  the  beach, 
followed  doggedly  by  Crampton.  Valentine  carries  a 
walking  stick.  Crampton,  either  because  he  is  old  and 
chilly,  or  with  some  idea  of  extenuating  the  unfashion- 
ableness  of  his  reefer  jacket,  wears  a  light  overcoat.  He 
stops  at  the  chair  left  by  McComas  in  the  middle  of  the 
terrace,  and  steadies  himself  for  a  moment  by  placing 
his  hand  on  the  back  of  it.) 

Crampton.  Those  steps  make  me  giddy.  (He 
passes  his  hand  over  his  forehead.)  I  have  not  got  over 
that  infernal  gas  yet. 

(He  goes  to  the  iron  chair,  so  that  he  can  lean  his 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  263 

elbows  on  the  little  table  to  prop  his  head  as  he  sits. 
He  soon  recovers,  and  begins  to  unbutton  his  overcoat. 
Meanwhile   Valentine  interviews  the  waiter.) 

Valentine.     Waiter! 

Waiter    (coming  forward  between   them).     Yes,  sir. 

Valentine.      Mrs.  Lanfrey  Clandon. 

Waiter  (with  a  sweet  smile  of  welcome) .  Yes,  sir. 
We're  expecting  you,  sir.  That  is  your  table,  sir.  Mrs. 
Clandon  will  be  down  presently,  sir.  The  young  lady 
and  young  gentleman  were  just  talking  about  your 
friend,  sir. 

Valentine.     Indeed ! 

Waiter  (smoothly  melodious).  Yes,  sir.  Great 
flow  of  spirits,  sir.  A  vein  of  pleasantry,  as  you  might 
say,  sir.  (Quickly,  to  Crampton,  who  has  risen  to  get 
the  overcoat  off.)  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  if  you'll  allow 
me  (helping  him  to  get  the  overcoat  of  and  taking  it 
from  him).  Thank  you,  sir.  (Crampton  sits  down 
again;  and  the  waiter  resumes  the  broken  melody.)  The 
young  gentleman's  latest  is  that  you're  his  father,  sir. 

Crampton.     What ! 

Waiter.  Only  his  joke,  sir,  his  favourite  joke.  Yes- 
terday, I  was  to  be  his  father.  To-day,  as  soon  as  he 
knew  you  were  coming,  sir,  he  tried  to  put  it  up  on  me 
that  you  were  his  father,  his  long  lost  father — not  seen 
you  for  eighteen  years,  he  said. 

Crampton   (startled).     Eighteen  years! 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir.  (With  gentle  archness.)  But  I 
was  up  to  his  tricks,  sir.  I  saw  the  idea  coming  into  his 
head  as  he  stood  there,  thinking  what  new  joke  he'd 
have  with  me.  Yes,  sir:  that's  the  sort  he  is:  very  pleas- 
ant, ve — ry  off  hand  and  affable  indeed,  sir.  (Again 
changing  his  tempo  to  say  to  Valentine,  who  is  putting 
his  stick  down  against  the  corner  of  the  garden  seat) 
If  you'll  allow  me,  sir.?  (Taking  Valentine's  stick.) 
Thank  you,  sir.  (Valentine  strolls  up  to  the  luncheon 
table    and    looks    at    the    menu.      The    waiter    turns    to 


264  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  ii 

Crampton  and  resumes  his  lay.)  Even  the  solicitor  took 
up  the  joke,  although  he  was  in  a  manner  of  speaking 
in  my  confidence  about  the  yoimg  gentleman,  sir.  Yes, 
sir,  I  assure  you,  sir.  You  would  never  imagine  what 
respectable  professional  gentlemen  from  London  will  do 
on  an  outing,  when  the  sea  air  takes  them,  sir. 

Crampton.  Oh,  there's  a  solicitor  with  them,  is 
there  ? 

Waiter.  The  family  solicitor,  sir — yes,  sir.  Name 
of  McComas,  sir.  (He  goes  towards  hotel  entrance  with 
coat  and  stick,  happily  unconscious  of  the  homhlike  ef- 
fect the  name  has  produced  on  Crampt07i.) 

Crampton  (rising  in  angry  alarm).  McComas! 
(Calls  to  Valentine.)  Valentine!  (Again,  fiercely.) 
Valentine!!  (Valentine  turns.)  This  is  a  plant,  a  con- 
spiracy. This  is  my  family — my  children — my  infernal 
wife. 

Valentine  (coolly).  Oh,  indeed!  Interesting  meet- 
ing!    (He  resumes  his  study  of  the  menu.) 

Crampton.  Meeting !  Not  for  me.  Let  me  out  of 
this.  (Calling  across  to  the  waiter.)  Give  me  that 
coat. 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir.  (He  comes  back,  puts  Valentine's 
stick  carefully  down  against  the  luncheon  table;  and 
delicately  shakes  the  coat  out  and  holds  it  for  Cramp- 
ton to  put  on.)  I  seem  to  have  done  the  young  gentle- 
man an  injustice,  sir,  haven't  I,  sir. 

Crampton.  Rrrh !  (He  stops  on  the  point  of  put- 
ting his  arms  into  the  sleeves,  and  turns  on  Valentine 
with  sudden  suspicion.)  Valentine:  you  are  in  this. 
You  made  this  plot.     You 

Valentine  (decisively).  Bosh!  (He  throws  the 
menu  down  and  goes  round  the  table  to  look  out  uncon- 
cernedly over  the  parapet.) 

Crampton  (angrily).  What  d'ye —  (McComas,  fol- 
lowed by  Philip  and  Dolly,  comes  out.  He  vacillates 
for  a  moment  on  seeing  Crampton.) 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  265 

Waiter  {softly — interrupting  Crampton).  Steady, 
sir.  Here  they  come,  sir.  {He  takes  up  the  stick  and 
makes  for  the  hotel,  throwing  the  coat  across  his  arm. 
McComas  turns  the  corners  of  his  mouth  resolutely  down, 
and  crosses  to  Crampton,  who  draws  back  and  glares, 
rvith  his  hands  behind  him.  McComas,  with  his  brow 
opener  than  ever,  confronts  him  in  the  majesty  of  a 
spotless  conscie7ice.) 

Waiter  {aside,  as  he  passes  Philip  on  his  rway  out). 
I've  broke  it  to  him,  sir. 

Philip.  Invaluable  William!  {He  passes  on  to  the 
table.) 

Dolly  {aside  to  the  waiter).     How  did  he  take  it? 

Waiter  {aside  to  her).  Startled  at  first,  miss;  but 
resigijed — very  resigned,  indeed,  miss.  {He  takes  the 
stick  and  coat  into  the  hotel.) 

McCoMAs  {having  stared  Crampton  out  of  counte- 
nance).    So  here  you  are,  Mr.  Crampton. 

Crampton.  Yes,  here — caught  in  a  trap — a  mean 
trap.     Are  those  my  children  .'^ 

Philip  {with  deadly  politeness).  Is  this  our  father, 
Mr.  McComas.'' 

McComas.  Yes — er —  {He  loses  countenance  him- 
self and  stops.) 

Dolly  {conventionally).  Pleased  to  meet  you  again. 
{She  wanders  idly  round  the  table,  exchanging  a  smile 
and  a  word  of  greeting  with  Valentine  on  the  way.) 

Philip.  Allow  me  to  discharge  my  first  duty  as  host 
by  ordering  your  wine.  {He  takes  the  wine  list  from  the 
table.  His  polite  attention,  and  Dolly's  unconcerned 
indifference,  leave  Crampton  on  the  footing  of  the  casual 
acquaintance  picked  up  that  morning  at  the  dentist's. 
The  consciousness  of  it  goes  through  the  father  with 
so  keen  a  pang  that  he  trembles  all  over;  his  brow  be- 
comes wet;  and  he  stares  dumbly  at  his  son,  who,  just 
conscious  enough  of  his  own  callousness  to  intensely 
enjoy   the  humor  and  adroitness  of  it,  proceeds  pleas- 


266  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

anily.)      Finch:   some   crusted   old   port   for   you,   as   a 
respectable   family  solicitor,  eh? 

McCoMAS  (firmly).  Apollinaris  only.  I  prefer  to 
take  nothing  heating.  (He  walks  away  to  the  side  of  the 
terrace,  like  a  man  putting  temptation  behind  him.) 

Philip.      Valentine ? 

Valentine.     Would  Lager  be  considered  vulgar? 

Philip.  Probably.  We'll  order  some.  Dolly  takes 
it.  (Turning  to  Crampton  with  cheerful  politeness.) 
And  now,  Mr.  Crampton,  what  can  we  do  for  you? 

Crampton.     What  d'ye  mean,  boy? 

Philip.  Boy!  (Very  solemnly.)  Whose  fault  is  it 
that  I  am  a  boy? 

(Crampton  snatches  the  wine  list  rudely  from  him  and 
irresohitely  pretends  to  read  it.  Philip  abandons  it  to 
him,  with  perfect  politeness.) 

Dolly  (looking  over  Crampton's  right  shoulder). 
The  whisky's  on  the  last  page  but  one. 

Crampton.     Let  me  alone,  child. 

Dolly.  Child!  No,  no:  you  may  call  me  Dolly  if 
you  like ;  but  j^ou  mustn't  call  me  child.  (She  slips  her 
arm  through  Philip's;  and  the  two  stand  looking  at 
Crampton  as  if  he  were  some  eccentric  stranger.) 

Crampton  (mopping  his  brow  in  rage  and  agony,  and 
yet  relieved  even  by  their  playing  with  him).  Mc- 
Comas:  we  are — ha! — going  to  have  a  pleasant  meal. 

McComas  (pusillanimously) .  There  is  no  reason 
why  it  should  not  be  pleasant.  (He  looks  abjectly 
gloomy.) 

Philip.  Finch's  face  is  a  feast  in  itself.  (Mrs. 
Clandon  and  Gloria  come  from  the  hotel.  Mrs.  Clandon 
advances  with  courageous  self-possession  and  marked 
dignity  of  manner.  She  stops  at  the  foot  of  the  steps 
to  address  Valentine,  who  is  in  her  path.  Gloria  also 
stops,  looking  at  Crampton  with  a  certain  repulsion.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Glad  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Valen- 
tine.    (He  smiles.     She  passes  on  and  confronts  Cramp- 


Act  n  You  Never  Can  Tell  267 

ton,  intending  to  address  him  with  perfect  composure ; 
but  his  aspect  shakes  her.  She  stops  suddenly  and  says 
anxiously,  rvith  a  touch  of  remorse.)  Fergus:  you  are 
greatly  changed. 

Crampton  {grimly).  I  daresay.  A  man  does  change 
in  eighteen  years. 

Mrs.  Clandon  {troubled).  I — I  did  not  mean  that. 
I  hope  your  health  is  good. 

Crampton.  Thank  j^ou.  No:  it's  not  my  health. 
It's  my  happiness :  that's  the  change  you  meant,  I  think. 
(^Breaking  out  suddenly.)  Look  at  her,  McComas ! 
Look  at  her;  and  look  at  me!  (He  utters  a  half  laugh, 
half  sob.) 

Philip.  Sh !  {Pointing  to  the  hotel  entrance,  where 
the  waiter  has  just  appeared.)     Order  before  William! 

Dolly  {touching  Crampton's  arm  warningly  with  her 
finger).  Ahem!  {The  waiter  goes  to  the  service  table 
and  beckons  to  the  kitchen  entrance,  whence  issue  a 
young  waiter  with  soup  plates,  and  a  cook,  in  white  apron 
and  cap,  with  the  soup  tureen.  The  young  waiter  re- 
mains and  serves:  the  cook  goes  out,  and  reappears  from 
time  to  time  bringing  in  the  courses.  He  carves,  but 
does  not  serve.  The  waiter  comes  to  the  end  of  the 
luncheon  table  next  the  steps.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  {as  they  all  assemble  about  the  table). 
I  think  you  have  all  met  one  another  already  to-day. 
Oh,  no,  excuse  me.  {Introducing)  Mr.  Valentine:  Mr. 
McComas.  {She  goes  to  the  end  of  the  table  nearest 
the  hotel.)  Fergus:  will  you  take  the  head  of  the  table, 
please. 

Crampton.  Ha!  {Bitterly.)  The  head  of  the 
table ! 

Waiter  {holding  the  chair  for  him  with  inoffensive 
encouragement).  This  end,  sir.  {Crampton  submits, 
and  takes  his  seat.)     Thank  you,  sir. 

]\Irs.  Clandon.  Mr.  Valentine:  will  you  take  that 
side  {indicating  the  side  next  the  parapet)  with  Gloria? 


268  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

(Valentine  and  Gloria  take  their  places,  Gloria  next 
Crampton  and  Valentine  next  Mrs.  Clandon.)  Finch:  I 
must  put  you  on  this  side,  between  Dolly  and  Phil.  You 
must  protect  yourself  as  best  you  can.  (The  three  take 
the  remaining  side  of  the  table,  Dolly  next  her  mother, 
Phil  next  his  father,  and  McComas  hetrveen  them.  Soup 
is  served.) 

Waiter  (to  Crampton).     Thick  or  clear,  sir? 

Crampton  (to  Mrs.  Clandon).  Does  nobody  ask  a 
blessing  in   this   household.'' 

Philip  (interposing  smartly).  Let  us  first  settle 
what  we  are  about  to  receive.     William! 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir.  (He  glides  swiftly  round  the 
table  to  Phil's  left  elbow.  On  his  way  he  whispers  to 
the  young  waiter)     Thick. 

Philip.  Two  small  Lagers  for  the  children  as  usual, 
William;  and  one  large  for  this  gentleman  (indicating 
Valentine).     Large   Apollinaris    for   Mr.    McComas. 

Waiter.     Yes,  sir. 

Dolly.     Have  a  six  of  Irish  in  it.  Finch.? 

McComas   (scandalised).     No — no,  thank  you. 

Philip.  Number  413  for  my  mother  and  Miss  Gloria 
as   before;    and —    (turning   enquiringly    to    Crampton) 

Crampton  (scowling  and  about  to  reply  offensively). 

Waiter  (striking  in  mellifluously) .  All  right,  sir. 
We  know  what  Mr.  Crampton  likes  here,  sir.  (He  goes 
into  the  hotel.) 

Philip  (looking  gravely  at  his  father).  You  fre- 
quent bars.  Bad  habit!  (The  cook,  accompanied  by  a 
waiter  with  a  supply  of  hot  plates,  brings  in  the  fish 
from  the  kitchen  to  the  service  table,  and  begins  slicing 
it.) 

Crampton.  You  have  learnt  your  lesson  from  your 
mother,  I  see. 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Phil:  will  you  please  remember  that 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  269 

your  jokes  are  apt  to  irritate  people  who  are  not  ac- 
customed to  us,  and  that  your  father  is  our  guest  to-day. 

Crampton  {bitterly).  Yes,  a  guest  at  the  head  of 
my  own  table,     {The  soup  plates  are  removed.) 

Dolly  {sympathetically).  Yes:  it's  embarrassing, 
isn't  it?     It's  just  as  bad  for  us,  you  know. 

Philip.  Sh !  Dolly:  we  are  both  wanting  in  tact. 
{To  Crampton.)  We  mean  well,  Mr.  Crampton;  but 
we  are  not  yet  strong  in  the  filial  line.  {The  waiter  re- 
turns from  the  hotel  with  the  drinks.)  William:  come 
and  restore  good  feeling. 

Waiter  {cheerfully).  Yes,  sir.  Certainly,  sir. 
Small  Lager  for  you,  sir.  {To  Crampton.)  Seltzer  and 
Irish,  sir.  {To  McComas.)  Apollinaris,  sir.  {To 
Dolly.)  Small  Lager,  miss.  {To  Mrs.  Clandon,  pour- 
ing out  wine.)  413,  madam.  {To  Valentine.)  Large 
Lager  for  you,  sir.     {To  Gloria.)     413,  miss. 

Dolly  {drinking).     To  the  family! 

Philip  {drinking).  Hearth  and  Home!  {Fish  is 
served.) 

McCoMAs  {with  an  obviously  forced  attempt  at  cheer- 
ful domesticity).  We  are  getting  on  very  nicely  after 
aU. 

Dolly  {critically).  After  all!  After  all  what, 
Finch .'' 

Crampton  {sarcastically).  He  means  that  you  are 
getting  on  very  nicely  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  your 
father.     Do  I  take  your  point  rightly,   Mr.   McComas? 

McCoMAs  {disconcerted).  No,  no.  I  only  said  "  af- 
ter all  "  to  round  off  the  sentence.     I — er — er — er 

Waiter  {tactfully).     Turbot,  sir? 

McCoMAS  {intensely  grateful  for  the  interruption). 
Thank  you,  waiter:  thank  you. 

Waiter  {sotto  voce).  Don't  mention  it,  sir.  {He 
returns  to  the  service  table.) 

Crampton  {to  Phil).  Have  you  thought  of  choosing 
a  profession  yet? 


270  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

Philip.  I  am  keeping  my  mind  open  on  that  subject. 
William ! 

Waiter.      Yes,  sir. 

Philip.  How  long  do  you  think  it  would  take  me  to 
learn  to  be  a  really  smart  waiter.^ 

Waiter.  Can't  be  learnt,  sir.  It's  in  the  character, 
sir.  (Confidentially  to  Valentine,  who  is  looking  about 
for  something.)  Bread  for  the  lady,  sir?  yes,  sir.  (He 
serves  bread  to  Gloria,  and  resumes  at  his  former  pitch.) 
Very  few  are  born  to  it,  sir. 

Philip.  You  don't  happen  to  have  such  a  thing  as  a 
son,  yourself,  have  you.^* 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir:  oh,  yes,  sir.  (To  Gloria,  again 
dropping  his  voice.)  A  little  more  fish,  miss.''  you  won't 
care  for  the  joint  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 

Gloria.  No,  thank  you.  (The  fish  plates  are  re- 
moved.) 

Dolly.     Is  your  son  a  waiter,  too,  William.'' 

Waiter  (serving  Gloria  with  fowl).  Oh,  no,  miss, 
he's  too  impetuous.     He's  at  the  Bar. 

McComas   (patronizingly).     A  potman,  eh? 

Waiter  (with  a  touch  of  melancholy,  as  if  recalling 
a  disappointment  softened  by  time).  No,  sir:  the  other 
bar — your  profession,  sir.     A  Q.C.,  sir. 

McCoMAS  (embarrassed).  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  par- 
don. 

Waiter.  Not  at  all,  sir.  Very  natural  mistake,  I'm 
sure,  sir,  I've  often  wished  he  was  a  potman,  sir. 
W^ould  have  been  off  my  hands  ever  so  much  sooner,  sir. 
(Aside  to  Valentine,  who  is  again  in  difficulties.)  Salt 
at  your  elbow,  sir.  (Resuming.)  Yes,  sir:  had  to  sup- 
port him  until  he  was  thirty-seven,  sir.  But  doing  well 
now,  sir:  very  satisfactory  indeed,  sir.  Nothing  less 
than  fifty  guineas,  sir. 

McCoMAS.  Democracy,  Crampton  ! — modern  democ- 
racy! 

Waiter  (calmly).     No,  sir,  not  democracy:  only  edu- 


Act  n  You  Never  Can  Tell  271 

cation,  sir.  Scholarships,  sir.  Cambridge  Local,  sir. 
Sidney  Sussex  College,  sir.  {Dolly  plucks  his  sleeve 
and  whispers  as  he  bends  doivn.)  Stone  ginger,  miss? 
Right,  miss.  {To  McComas.)  Very  good  thing  for  him, 
sir:  he  never  had  any  turn  for  real  work,  sir.  {He  goes 
into  the  hotel,  leaving  the  company  somewhat  over- 
whelmed by  his  son's  eminence.) 

Valentine.  Which  of  us  dare  give  that  man  an 
order  again ! 

Dolly.  I  hope  he  won't  mind  my  sending  him  for 
ginger-beer. 

Crampton  {doggedly).  While  he's  a  waiter  it's  his 
business  to  wait.  If  you  had  treated  him  as  a  waiter 
ought  to  be  treated,  he'd  have  held  his  tongue. 

Dolly.  What  a  loss  that  would  have  been !  Per- 
haps he'll  give  us  an  introduction  to  his  son  and  get  us 
into  London  society.  {The  waiter  reappears  with  the 
ginger-beer.) 

Crampton  {growling  contemptuously).  London  so- 
ciety !  London  society ! !  You're  not  fit  for  any  society, 
child. 

Dolly  {losing  her  temper).  Now  look  here,  Mr. 
Crampton.     If  you  think 

Waiter  {softly,  at  her  elbow).     Stone  ginger,  miss. 

Dolly  {taken  aback,  recovers  her  good  humor  after  a 
long  breath  and  says  srveetly).  Thank  you,  dear  Will- 
iam.    You  were  just  in  time.     {She  drinks.) 

McComas  {making  a  fresh  effort  to  lead  the  conver- 
sation into  dispassionate  regions).  If  I  may  be  al- 
lowed to  change  the  subject,  Miss  Clandon,  what  is  the 
established  religion   in   Madeira.^ 

Gloria.  I  suppose  the  Portuguese  religion.  I  never 
enquired. 

Dolly.  The  servants  come  in  Lent  and  kneel  down 
before  you  and  confess  all  the  things  they've  done;  and 
you  have  to  pretend  to  forgive  them.  Do  they  do  that 
in  England,  William.'' 


272  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  n 

Waiter.  Not  usually,  miss.  They  may  in  some 
parts:  but  'it  has  not  come  under  my  notice,  miss. 
(Catching  Mrs.  Clandon's  eye  as  the  young  waiter  of- 
fers her  the  salad  borvl.)  You  like  it  without  dressing, 
ma'am:  yes,  ma'am,  I  have  some  for  you.  (To  his 
young  colleague,  motioning  him  to  serve  Gloria.)  This 
side,  Jo.  (He  takes  a  special  portion  of  salad  from  the 
service  table  and  puts  it  beside  Mrs.  Clandon's  plate. 
In  doing  so  he  observes  that  Dolly  is  making  a  wry 
face.)  Only  a  bit  of  watercress,  miss,  got  in  by  mis- 
take. (He  takes  her  salad  away.)  Thank  you,  miss. 
(To  the  young  waiter,  admonishing  him  to  serve  Dolly 
afresh.)  Jo.  (Resuming.)  Mostly  members  of  the 
Church  of  England,  miss. 

Dolly.  Members  of  the  Church  of  England! 
What's  the  subscription? 

Crampton  (rising  violently  amid  general  consterna- 
tion). You  see  how  my  children  have  been  brought  up, 
McComas.  You  see  it;  you  hear  it.  I  call  all  of 
you  to  witness —  (He  becomes  inarticulate,  and  is  about 
to  strike  his  fist  recklessly  on  the  table  when  the  waiter 
considerately  takes  away  his  plate.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (firmly).  Sit  down,  Fergus.  There  is 
no  occasion  at  all  for  this  outburst.  You  must  remember 
that  Dolly  is  just  like  a  foreigner  here.     Pray  sit  dovm. 

Craaipton  (subsiding  unwillingly).  I  doubt  whether 
I  ought  to  sit  here  and  countenance  all  this.     I  doubt  it. 

Waiter.     Cheese,  sir;  or  would  you  like  a  cold  sweet? 

Crampton  (taken  aback).  What?  Oh! — cheese, 
cheese. 

Dolly.     Bring  a  box  of  cigarets,  William. 

Waiter.  All  ready,  miss.  (He  takes  a  box  of  cig- 
arets from  the  service  table  and  places  them  before 
Dolly,  who  selects  one  and  prepares  to  smoke.  He  then 
returns  to  his  table  for  a  box  of  vestas.) 

Crampton     (staring    aghast    at    Dolly).     Does    she 


smoke  ? 


Act  n  You  Never  Can  Tell  273 

Dolly  (out  of  patience).  Really,  Mr.  Crampton, 
I'm  afraid  I'm  spoiling  your  lunch.  I'll  go  and  have  my 
cigaret  on  the  beach.  {She  leaves  the  table  with  petu- 
lant suddenness  and  goes  down  the  steps.  The  waiter 
attempts  to  give  her  the  matches;  hut  she  is  gone  before 
he  can  reach  her.) 

Crampton  (furiously).  Margaret:  call  that  girl 
back.     Call  her  back,  I  say. 

McCoMAS  (trying  to  make  peace).  Come,  Crampton: 
never  mind.     She's  her  father's  daughter:  that's  all. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (with  deep  resentment).  I  hope  not. 
Finch.  (She  rises:  they  all  rise  a  little.)  Mr.  Valen- 
tine: will  you  excuse  me:  I  am  afraid  Dolly  is  hurt 
and  put  out  by  what  has  passed.     I  must  go  to  her. 

Crampton.     To  take  her  part  against  me,  you  mean. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (ignoring  him).  Gloria:  will  you  take 
my  place  whilst  I  am  away,  dear.  (She  crosses  to  the 
steps.  Crampton's  eyes  follow  her  with  bitter  hatred. 
The  rest  watch  her  in  embarrassed  silence,  feeling  the 
incident  to  be  a  very  painful  one.) 

Waiter  (intercepting  her  at  the  top  of  the  steps  and 
offering  her  a  box  of  vestas).  Young  lady  forgot  the 
matches,  ma'am.     If  you  will  be  so  good,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (surprised  into  grateful  politeness  by 
the  witchery  of  his  sweet  and  cheerful  tones).  Thank 
you  very  much.  (She  takes  the  matches  and  goes  down 
to  the  beach.  The  waiter  shepherds  his  assistant  along 
with  him  into  the  hotel  by  the  kitchen  entrance,  leav- 
ing the  luncheon  party  to  themselves.) 

Crampton  (throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair). 
There's  a  mother  for  you,  McComas !  There's  a 
mother  for  you ! 

Gloria    (steadfastly).     Yes:   a   good  mother. 

Crampton.  And  a  bad  father.^  That's  what  you 
mean,  eh? 

Valentine  (rising  indigiiantly  and  addressing 
Gloria).     Miss  Clandon:  I 


274  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

Crampton  (^turning  on  him).  That  girl's  name  is 
Crampton,  Mr.  Valentine,  not  Clandon.  Do  you  wish 
to  join  them  in  insulting  me? 

Valentine  (^ignoring  Mm).  I'm  overwhelmed.  Miss 
Clandon.  It's  all  my  fault:  I  brought  him  here:  I'm 
responsible  for  him.     And  I'm  ashamed  of  him. 

Crampton.     What  d'y'  mean  ? 

Gloria  (rising  coldly).  No  harm  has  been  done,  Mr. 
Valentine.  We  have  all  been  a  little  childish,  I  am 
afraid.  Our  party  has  been  a  failure:  let  us  break  it  up 
and  have  done  with  it.  (She  puts  her  chair  aside  and 
turns  to  the  steps,  adding,  with  slighting  composure,  as 
she  passes  Crampton.)     Good-bye,  father. 

(She  descends  the  steps  with  cold,  disgusted  indiffer- 
ence. They  all  look  after  her,  and  so  do  not  notice 
the  return  of  the  waiter  from  the  hotel,  laden  with 
Crampton's  coat,  Valentine's  stick,  a  couple  of  shawls 
and  parasols,  a  white  canvas  umbrella,  and  some  camp 
stools.) 

Crampton  (to  himself,  staring  after  Gloria  with  a 
ghastly  expression).  Father!  Father!!  (He  strikes 
his  fist  violently  on  the  table.)     Now 

Waiter  (offering  the  coat).  This  is  yours,  sir,  I 
think,  sir.  (Crampton  glares  at  him;  then  snatches  it 
rudely  and  comes  down  the  terrace  towards  the  garden 
seat,  struggling  with  the  coat  in  his  angry  efforts  to  put 
it  on.  McComas  rises  and  goes  to  his  assistance;  then 
takes  his  hat  and  umbrella  from  the  little  iron  table,  and 
turns  towards  the  steps.  Meanwhile  the  waiter,  after 
thanking  Crampton  with  unruffled  sweetness  for  taking 
the  coat,  offers  some  of  his  burden  to  Phil.)  The  ladies' 
sunshades,  sir.  Nasty  glare  off  the  sea  to-day,  sir: 
very  trying  to  the  complexion,  sir.  I  shall  carry  down 
the  camp  stools  myself,  sir. 

Philip.  You  are  old.  Father  William;  but  you  are 
the  most  considerate  of  men.  No:  keep  the  sunshades 
and  give  me  the  camp  stools  (taking  them). 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  275 

Waiter   (with  flattering  gratitude).     Thank  you,  sir. 

Philip.  Pinch:  share  with  me  (giving  him  a  couple). 
Come  along.     (They  go  down  the  steps  together.) 

Valentine  (to  the  rvaiter).  Leave  me  something  to 
bring  down — one  of  these.  (Offering  to  take  a  sun- 
shade.) 

Waiter  (discreetly).  That's  the  younger  lady's,  sir. 
(Valentine  lets  it  go.)  Thank  you,  sir.  If  you'll  allow 
me,  sir,  I  think  you  had  better  have  this.  (He  puts 
down  the  sunshades  on  Crampton's  chair,  and  produces 
from  the  tail  pocket  of  his  dress  coat,  a  hook  with  a 
lady's  handkerchief  between  the  leaves,  marking  the 
page.)  The  eldest  young  lady  is  reading  it  at  present. 
(Valentine  takes  it  eagerly.)  Thank  you,  sir.  Schopen- 
hauer, sir,  you  see.  (He  takes  up  the  sunshades  again.) 
Very  interesting  author,  sir:  especially  on  the  subject 
of  ladies,  sir.  (He  goes  down  the  steps.  Valentine, 
about  to  follow  him,  recollects  Crampton  and  changes 
his  mind.) 

Valentine  (coming  rather  excitedly  to  Crampton). 
Now  look  here,  Crampton:  are  you  at  all  ashamed  of 
yourself  ?    : 

Crampton  (pugnaciously).  Ashamed  of  myself! 
What  for? 

Valentine.  For  behaving  like  a  bear.  What  will 
your  daughter  think  of  me  for  having  brought  you  here."* 

Crampton.  I  was  not  thinking  of  what  my  daughter 
was  thinking  of  you. 

Valentine.  No,  you  were  thinking  of  yourself. 
You're  a  perfect  egomaniac. 

Crampton  (heartrent).  She  told  you  what  I  am — a 
father — a  father  robbed  of  his  children.  What  are  the 
hearts  of  this  generation  like?  Am  I  to  come  here  after 
all  these  years — to  see  what  my  children  are  for  the  first 
time !  to  hear  their  voices ! — and  carry  it  all  off  like  a 
fashionable  visitor ;  drop  in  to  lunch ;  be  Mr.  Crampton 
— Mister  Crampton!     What  right  have  they  to  talk  to 


276  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

me  like  that?  I'm  their  father:  do  they  deny  that?  I'm 
a  man,  with  the  feelings  of  our  common  humanity:  have 
I  no  rights,  no  claims?  In  all  these  years  who  have  I 
had  round  me?  Servants,  clerks,  business  acquaintances. 
I've  had  respect  from  them — aye,  kindness.  Would  one 
of  them  have  spoken  to  me  as  that  girl  spoke? — would 
one  of  them  have  laughed  at  me  as  that  boy  was  laugh- 
ing at  me  all  the  time?  (Frantically.)  My  own  chil- 
dren!     Mister   Crcimpton  !      My 

Valentine.  Come,  come:  they're  only  children.  The 
only  one  of  them  that's  worth  anything  called  you  father. 

Crampton  (wildly).  Yes:  "good-bye,  father." 
Good-bye!  Oh,  yes:  she  got  at  my  feelings — with  a 
stab! 

Valentine  (taking  this  in  very  bad  part).  Now 
look  here,  Crampton:  you  just  let  her  alone:  she's 
treated  you  very  well.  I  had  a  much  worse  time  of  it  at 
lunch  than  you. 

Crampton.     You  ! 

Valentine  (rvith  growing  impetuosity).  Yes:  I. 
I  sat  next  her ;  and  I  never  said  a  single  thing  to  her  the 
whole  time — couldn't  think  of  a  blessed  word.  And  not 
a  word  did  she  say  to  me. 

Crampton.     Well  ? 

Valentine.  Well?  Well???  (Tackling  him  very 
seriously  and  talking  faster  and  faster.)  Crampton:  do 
you  know  what's  been  the  matter  with  me  to-day?  You 
don't  suppose,  do  you,  that  I'm  in  the  habit  of  playing 
such  tricks  on  my  patients  as  I  played  on  you? 

Crampton.     I  hope  not. 

Valentine.  The  explanation  is  that  I'm  stark  mad, 
or  rather  that  I've  never  been  in  my  real  senses  before. 
I'm  capable  of  anything:  I've  grown  up  at  last:  I'm  a 
Man;  and  it's  your  daughter  that's  made  a  man  of  me. 

Crampton  (incredulously) .  Are  you  in  love  with  my 
daughter  ? 

Valentine   (his  words  now  coming  in  a  perfect  tor- 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  277 

rent).  Love!  Nonsense:  it's  something  far  above  and 
beyond  that.  It's  life,  it's  faith,  it's  strength,  certainty, 
paradise 

Crampton  {interrupting  him  with  acrid  contempt). 
Rubbish,  man !  What  have  you  to  keep  a  wife  on?  You 
can't  marry  her. 

Valentine.  Who  wants  to  marry  her?  I'll  kiss  her 
hands;  I'll  kneel  at  her  feet;  I'll  live  for  her;  I'll  die 
for  her;  and  that'll  be  enough  for  me.  Look  at  her 
book!  See!  {He  kisses  the  handkerchief.)  If  you 
offered  me  all  your  money  for  this  excuse  for  going 
down  to  the  beach  and  speaking  to  her  again,  I'd  only 
laugh  at  you.  {He  rushes  buoyantly  off  to  the  steps, 
where  he  bounces  right  into  the  arms  of  the  waiter,  who 
is  coming  up  from  the  beach.  The  two  save  themselves 
from  falling  by  clutching  one  another  tightly  round  the 
waist  and  whirling  one  another  round.) 

Waiter  {delicately).     Steady,  sir,  steady. 

Valentine  {shocked  at  his  own  violence).  I  beg 
your  pardon. 

Waiter.  Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all.  Very  natural, 
sir,  I'm  sure,  sir,  at  your  age.  The  lady  has  sent  me 
for  her  book,  sir.  Might  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking 
you  to  let  her  have  it  at  once,  sir? 

Valentine.  With  pleasure.  And  if  you  will  allow 
me  to  present  you  with  a  professional  man's  earnings 
for  six  weeks —  {offering  him  Dolly's  crown  piece.) 

Waiter  {as  if  the  sum  were  beyond  his  utmost  ex- 
pectations). Thank  you,  sir:  much  obliged.  {Valen- 
tine dashes  down  the  steps.)  Very  high-spirited  young 
gentleman,  sir:  very  manly  and  straight  set  up. 

Crampton  {in  grumbling  disparagement).  And 
making  his  fortune  in  a  hurry,  no  doubt.  I  know  what 
his  six  weeks'  earnings  come  to.  {He  crosses  the  ter- 
race to  the  iron  table,  and  sits  down.) 

Waiter  {philosophically).  Well,  sir,  you  never  can 
tell.     That's  a  principle  in  life  with  me,  sir,  if  you'll 


278  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

excuse  my  having  such  a  thing,  sir.  (^Delicately  sinking 
the  philosopher  in  the  ivaiter  for  a  moment.^  Perhaps 
you  haven't  noticed  that  you  hadn't  touched  that  seltzer 
and  Irish,  sir,  when  the  party  broke  up.  {He  takes  the 
tumbler  from  the  luncheon  table,  and  sets  it  before 
Crampton.)  Yes,  sir,  you  never  can  tell.  There  was 
my  son,  sir !  who  ever  thought  that  he  would  rise  to  wear 
a  silk  gown,  sir.^  And  yet  to-day,  sir,  nothing  less  than 
fifty  guineas,  sir.     What  a  lesson,  sir! 

Crampton.  Well,  I  hope  he  is  grateful  to  you,  and 
recognizes  what  he  owes  you. 

Waiter.  We  get  on  together  very  well,  very  well  in- 
deed, sir,  considering  the  difference  in  our  stations. 
(With  another  of  his  irresistible  transitions.)  A  small 
lump  of  sugar,  sir,  will  take  the  flatness  out  of  the 
seltzer  without  noticeably  sweetening  the  drink,  sir.  Al- 
low me,  sir.  (^He  drops  a  lump  of  sugar  into  the 
tumbler.)  But  as  I  say  to  him,  where's  the  difference 
after  all.''  If  I  must  put  on  a  dress  coat  to  show  what 
I  am,  sir,  he  must  put  on  a  wig  and  gown  to  show 
what  he  is.  If  my  income  is  mostly  tips,  and  there's  a 
pretence  that  I  don't  get  them,  why,  his  income  is  mostly 
fees,  sir;  and  I  understand  there's  a  pretence  that  he 
don't  get  them!  If  he  likes  society,  and  his  profession 
brings  him  into  contact  with  all  ranks,  so  does  mine, 
too,  sir.  If  it's  a  little  against  a  barrister  to  have  a 
waiter  for  his  father,  sir,  it's  a  little  against  a  waiter 
to  have  a  barrister  for  a  son:  many  people  consider  it 
a  great  liberty,  sir,  I  assure  you,  sir.  Can  I  get  you 
anything  else,  sir? 

Crampton.  No,  thank  you.  (With  bitter  humility.) 
I  suppose  there's  no  objection  to  my  sitting  here  for  a 
while:  I  can't  disturb  the  party  on  the  beach  here. 

Waiter  (with  emotion).  Very  kind  of  you,  sir,  to 
put  it  as  if  it  was  not  a  compliment  and  an  honour  to 
us,  Mr.  Crampton,  very  kind  indeed.  The  more  you  are 
at  home  here,  sir,  the  better  for  us. 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  279 

Crampton   (in  poignant  irony).     Home! 

Waiter  (reflectively).  Well,  yes,  sir:  that's  a  way 
of  looking  at  it,  too,  sir.  I  have  always  said  that  the 
great  advantage  of  a  hotel  is  that  it's  a  refuge  from 
home  life,  sir. 

Crampton.     I  missed  that  advantage  to-day,  I  think. 

Waiter.  You  did,  sir,  you  did.  Dear  me!  It's 
the  unexpected  that  always  happens,  isn't  it?  (Shak- 
ing his  head.)  You  never  can  tell,  sir:  you  never  can 
tell.     (He  goes  into  the  hotel.) 

Cramptox  (his  eyes  shining  hardly  as  he  props  his 
drawn,  miserable  face  on  his  hands).  Home!  Home!! 
(He  drops  his  arms  on  the  table  and  bows  his  head  on 
them,  but  presently  hears  someone  approaching  and 
hastily  sits  bolt  npright.  It  is  Gloria,  who  has  come 
up  the  steps  alone,  with  her  sunshade  and  her  booh  in 
her  hands.  He  looks  defiantly  at  her,  with  the  brutal 
obstinacy  of  his  mouth  and  the  wistfulness  of  his  eyes 
contradicting  each  other  pathetically.  She  comes  to  the 
corner  of  the  garden  seat  and  stands  with  her  back  to 
it,  leaning  against  the  end  of  it,  and  looking  down  at 
him  as  if  wondering  at  his  weakness:  too  curious  about 
him  to  be  cold,  but  supremely  indifferent  to  their  kin- 
ship.)    Well.? 

Gloria.     I  want  to  speak  to  you  for  a  moment. 

Crampton  (looking  steadily  at  her).  Indeed? 
That's  surprising.  You  meet  your  father  after  eighteen 
years;  and  you  actually  want  to  speak  to  him  for  a 
moment!  That's  touching:  isn't  it?  (He  rests  his  head 
on  his  hand,  and  looks  down  and  away  from  her,  in 
gloomy  reflection.) 

Gloria.  All  that  is  what  seems  to  me  so  nonsensical, 
so  uncalled  for.  What  do  you  expect  us  to  feel  for  you 
— to  do  for  you?  AVhat  is  it  you  want?  Why  are  you 
less  civil  to  us  than  other  people  are?  You  are  evi- 
dently not  very  fond  of  us — why  should  you  be?  But 
surely  we  can  meet  without  quarrelling. 


280  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

Crampton  (a  dreadful  grey  shade  parsing  over  his 
face).     Do  you  realize  that  I  am  your  father? 

Gloria.      Perfectly. 

Crampton.  Do  you  know  what  is  due  to  me  as  your 
father  ? 

Gloria.     For   instance ? 

Crampton  (rising  as  if  to  combat  a  monster}.  For 
instance !  For  instance  ! !  For  instance,  duty,  affection, 
respect,  obedience 

Gloria  (quitting  her  careless  leaning  attitude  and 
confronting  him  promptly  and  proudly).  I  obey  noth- 
ing but  my  sense  of  what  is  right.  I  respect  nothing 
that  is  not  noble.  That  is  my  duty.  (She  adds,  less 
firmly)  As  to  affection,  it  is  not  within  my  control.  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  quite  know  what  affection  means. 
(She  turns  away  with  an  evident  distaste  for  that  part 
of  the  subject,  and  goes  to  the  luncheon  table  for  a 
comfortable  chair,  putting  down  her  book  and  sun- 
shade.) 

Crampton  (following  her  with  his  eyes).  Do  you 
really  mean  what  you  are  saying.^ 

Gloria  (turning  on  him  quickly  and  severely).  Ex- 
cuse me:  that  is  an  uncivil  question.  I  am  speaking 
seriously  to  you;  and  I  expect  you  to  take  me  seriously. 
(She  takes  one  of  the  luncheon  chairs;  turns  it  away 
from  the  table;  and  sits  down  a  little  wearily,  say- 
ing) Can  you  not  discuss  this  matter  coolly  and  ration- 
ally? 

Crampton.  Coolly  and  rationally !  No,  I  can't.  Do 
you  understand  that?     I  can't. 

Gloria  (emphatically).  No.  That  I  cannot  un™ 
derstand.     I  have  no  sympathy  with 

Crampton  (shrinking  nervously).  Stop!  Don't  say 
anything  more  yet;  you  don't  know  what  you're  doing. 
Do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad?  (She  frowns,  finding 
such  petulance  intolerable.  He  adds  hastily)  No:  Fm 
not  angry:  indeed  I'm  not.     Wait*  wait:  give  me  a  little 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  281 

time  to  think.  {He  stands  for  a  moment,  screwing  and 
clinching  his  brows  and  hands  in  his  perplexity;  then 
takes  tJie  end  chair  from  the  luncheon  table  and  sits 
down  beside  her,  saying,  with  a  touching  effort  to  be 
gentle  and  patient^  Now,  I  think  I  have  it.  At  least 
I'll  try. 

Gloria  {firmly).  You  see!  Everything  comes  right 
if  we  only  think  it  resolutely  out. 

Crampton  {in  sudden  dread).  No:  don't  think.  I 
want  you  to  feel:  that's  the  only  thing  that  can  help  us. 
Listen  !  Do  you — but  first — I  forgot.  What's  your 
name?  I  mean  your  pet  name.  They  can't  very  well 
call  you  Sophronia. 

Gloria  {tvith  astonished  disgust).  Sophronia!  My 
name  is  Gloria.     I  am  always  called  by  it. 

Crampton  {his  temper  rising  again).  Your  name  is 
Sophronia,  girl:  you  were  called  after  your  aunt  So- 
phronia, my  sister:  she  gave  you  your  first  Bible  with 
your  name  written  in  it. 

Gloria.      Then  my  mother  gave  me  a  new  name. 

Crampton  {angrily).  She  had  no  right  to  do  it.  I 
will  not  allow  this. 

Gloria.  You  had  no  right  to  give  me  your  sister's 
name.     I  don't  know  her. 

Crampton.  You're  talking  nonsense.  There  are 
bounds  to  what  1  will  put  up  with.  I  will  not  have  it. 
Do  you  hear  that.'' 

Gloria  {rising  warningly).  Are  you  resolved  to 
quarrel  ? 

Crampton  {terrified ^  pleading).  No,  no:  sit  down. 
Sit  down,  won't  you.^  {She  looks  at  him,  keeping  him  in 
suspense.  He  forces  himself  to  utter  the  obnoxious 
name.)  Gloria.  {She  marks  her  satisfaction  with  a 
slight  tightening  of  the  lips,  and  sits  down.)  There! 
You  see  I  only  want  to  shew  you  that  I  am  your  father, 
my — my  dear  child.  {The  endearment  is  so  plaintively 
inept  that  she  smiles  in  spite  of  herself,  and  resigns  her- 


282  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

self  to  indulge  him  a  little.)  Listen  now.  What  I  want 
to  ask  you  is  this.  Don't  you  remember  me  at  all?  You 
were  only  a  tiny  child  when  you  were  taken  away  from 
me;  but  you  took  plenty  of  notice  of  things.  Can't  you 
remember  someone  whom  you  loved,  or  (shyly)  at  least 
liked  in  a  childish  way  ?  Come !  someone  who  let  you 
stay  in  his  study  and  look  at  his  toy  boats,  as  you 
thought  them.^  (He  looks  anxiously  into  her  face  for 
some  response,  and  continues  less  hopefully  and  more 
urgently)  Someone  who  let  you  do  as  you  liked  there 
and  never  said  a  word  to  you  except  to  tell  you  that 
you  must  sit  still  and  not  speak?  Someone  who  was 
something  that  no  one  else  was  to  you — who  was  your 
father. 

Gloria  (unmoved).  If  you  describe  things  to  me,  no 
doubt  I  shall  presently  imagine  that  I  remember  them. 
But  I  really  remember  nothing. 

Crampton  (wistfully).  Has  your  mother  never  told 
you  anything  about  me? 

Gloria.  She  has  never  mentioned  your  name  to  me. 
(He  groans  involuntarily.  She  looks  at  him  rather  con- 
temptuously and  continues)  Except  once;  and  then  she 
did  remind  me  of  something  I  had  forgotten. 

Crampton  (looking  up  hopefully).     What  was  that? 

Gloria  (mercilessly).  The  whip  you  bought  to  beat 
me  with. 

Crampton  (gnashing  his  teeth).  Oh!  To  bring  that 
up  against  me !  To  turn  you  from  me !  When  you  need 
never  have  known.  (Under  a  grindirig,  agonized 
breath.)      Curse  her! 

Gloria  (springing  up).  You  wretch!  With  in- 
tense emphasis.)  You  wretch!!  You  dare  curse  my 
mother ! 

Crampton.  Stop;  or  you'll  be  sorry  afterwards. 
I'm  your  father. 

Gloria.  How  I  hate  the  name!  How  I  love  the 
name  of  mother !    You  had  better  go. 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  283 

Crampton.  I — I'm  choking.  You  want  to  kill  me. 
Some — I —     (His  voice  stifles:  he  is  almost  in  a  fit.) 

Gloria  (going  up  to  the  balustrade  with  cool,  quick 
resourcefulness,  and  calling  over  to  the  beach).  Mr. 
Valentine ! 

Valentine    (answering  from  below).     Yes. 

Gloria.  Come  here  for  a  moment,  please.  Mr. 
Crampton  wants  you.  (She  returns  to  the  table  and 
pours  out  a  glass  of  water.) 

Crampton  (recovering  his  speech).  No:  let  me 
alone.  I  don't  want  him.  I'm  all  right,  I  tell  you.  I 
need  neither  his  help  nor  yours.  (He  rises  and  pulls 
himself  together.)  As  j^ou  say,  I  liad  better  go.  (He 
puts  on  his  hat.)      Is  that  your  last  word? 

Gloria.  I  hope  so.  (He  looks  stubbornly  at  her  for 
a  moment;  nods  grimly,  as  if  he  agreed  to  that;  and 
goes  into  the  hotel.  She  looks  at  him  with  equal  steadi- 
ness until  he  disappears,  when  she  makes  a  gesture  of 
relief,  and  turns  to  speak  to  Valentine,  who  comes  run- 
ning up  the  steps.) 

Valentine  (panting).  What's  the  matter?  (Look- 
ing round.)     Where's  Crampton? 

Gloria.  Gone.  (Valentine's  face  lights  up  with  sud- 
den joy,  dread,  and  mischief.  He  has  just  realised  that 
he  is  alone  with  Gloria.  She  continues  indifferently)  I 
thought  he  was  ill;  but  he  recovered  himself.  He 
wouldn't  wait  for  you,  I  am  sorry.  (She  goes  for  her 
book  and  parasol.) 

Valentine.  So  much  the  better.  He  gets  on  my 
nerves  after  a  while.  (Pretending  to  forget  himself.) 
How  could  that  man  have  so  beautiful  a  daughter ! 

Gloria  (taken  aback  for  a  moment;  then  answering 
him  with  polite  but  intentional  contempt).  That  seems 
to  be  an  attempt  at  what  is  called  a  pretty  speech.  Let 
me  say  at  once,  Mr.  Valentine,  that  pretty  speeches  make 
very  sickly  conversation.  Pray  let  us  be  friends,  if  we 
are  to  be  friends,  in  a  sensible  and  wholesome  way.     I 


284  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

have  no  intention  of  getting  married;  and  unless  you 
are  content  to  accept  that  state  of  things,  we  had  much 
better  not  cultivate  each  other's  acquaintance. 

Valentine  {cautiously).  I  see.  May  I  ask  just 
this  one  question?  Is  your  objection  an  objection  to 
marriage  as  an  institution,  or  merely  an  objection  to 
marrying  me  personally  ? 

Gloria.  I  do  not  know  you  well  enough,  Mr.  Val- 
entine, to  have  any  opinion  on  the  subject  of  your 
personal  merits.  {She  turns  away  from  him  with  in- 
finite indifference,  and  sits  down  with  her  book  on  the 
garden  seat.)  I  do  not  think  the  conditions  of  mar- 
riage at  present  are  such  as  any  self-respecting  woman 
can  accept. 

Valentine  {instantly  changing  his  tone  for  one  of 
cordial  sincerity,  as  if  he  frankly  accepted  her  terms 
and  was  delighted  and  reassured  by  her  principles). 
Oh,  then  that's  a  point  of  sympathy  between  us  already. 
I  quite  agree  with  you:  the  conditions  are  most  unfair. 
{He  takes  off  his  hat  and  throws  it  gaily  on  the  iron 
table.)  No:  what  I  want  is  to  get  rid  of  all  that  non- 
sense. {He  sits  down  beside  her,  so  naturally  that  she 
does  not  think  of  objecting,  and  proceeds,  with  enthus- 
iasm) Don't  you  think  it  a  horrible  thing  that  a  man 
and  a  woman  can  hardly  know  one  another  without 
being  supposed  to  have  designs  of  that  kind.'*  As  if 
there  were  no  other  interests — no  other  subjects  of  con- 
versation— as  if  women  were  capable  of  nothing  better ! 

Gloria  {interested).  Ah,  now  you  are  beginning  to 
talk  humanly  and  sensibly,  Mr.  Valentine. 

Valentine  {with  a  gleam  in  his  eye  at  the  success  of 
his  hunter's  guile).  Of  course!— two  intelligent  people 
like  us.  Isn't  it  pleasant,  in  this  stupid,  convention- 
ridden  world,  to  meet  with  someone  on  the  same  plane — 
someone  with  an  unprejudiced,  enlightened  mind? 

Gloria  {earnestly).  I  hope  to  meet  many  such  peo- 
ple in  England. 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  285 

Valentine  (dubiously).  Hm !  There  are  a  good 
many  people  here — nearly  forty  millions.  They're  not 
all  consumptive  members  of  the  highly  educated  classes 
like  the  people  in  Madeira. 

Gloria  {now  full  of  her  subject).  Oh,  everybody  is 
stupid  and  prejudiced  in  Madeira — weak,  sentimental 
creatures !     I  hate  weakness ;  and  I  hate  sentiment. 

Valentine.     That's  what  makes  you  so  inspiring 

Gloria  {with  a  slight  laugh).     Am  I  inspiring.'' 

Valentine.      Yes.     Strength's  infectious. 

Gloria.     Weakness  is,  I  know. 

Valentine  {with  conviction).  You're  strong.  Do 
you  know  that  you  changed  the  world  for  me  this  morn- 
ing.'' I  was  in  the  dumps,  thinking  of  my  unpaid  rent, 
frightened  about  the  future.  When  you  came  in,  I  was 
dazzled.  {Her  brow  clouds  a  little.  He  goes  on  quick- 
ly.) That  was  silly,  of  course;  but  really  and  truly 
something  happened  to  me.  Explain  it  how  you  will, 
my  blood  got —  {he  hesitates,  trying  to  think  of  a  suffi- 
ciently unimpassioned  word)  — oxygenated:  my  muscles 
braced ;  my  mind  cleared ;  my  courage  rose.  That's  odd, 
isn't  it.''  considering  that  I  am  not  at  all  a  sentimental 
man. 

Gloria  {uneasily,  rising).  Let  us  go  back  to  the 
beach. 

Valentine  {darkly — looking  up  at  her).  What! 
you  feel  it,  too? 

Gloria.      Feel  what? 

Valentine.     Dread. 

Gloria.      Dread ! 

Valentine.  As  if  something  were  going  to  happen. 
It  came  over  me  suddenly  just  before  you  proposed  that 
we  should  run  away  to  the  others. 

Gloria  {amazed).  That's  strange — very  strange!  I 
had  the  same  presentiment. 

Valentine.  How  extraordinary!  {Rising.)  Well: 
shall  we  run  away? 


286  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

Gloria,  Runaway!  Oh,  no:  that  would  be  childish. 
(She  sits  down  again.  He  resumes  his  seat  beside  her, 
and  rvatches  her  ivith  a  gravely  sympathetic  air.  She  is 
thoughtful  and  a  little  troubled  as  she  adds)  I  wonder 
what  is  tlie  scientific  explanation  of  those  fancies  that 
cross  us  occasionally ! 

Valentine.  Ah,  I  wonder!  It's  a  curiously  help- 
less sensation:  i»n't  it.^ 

Gloria   (rebelling  against  the  rvord).     Helpless? 

Valentine.  Yes.  As  if  Nature,  after  allowing  us 
to  belong  to  ourselves  and  do  what  we  judged  right  and 
reasonable  for  all  these  years,  were  suddenly  lifting  her 
great  hand  to  take  us — her  two  little  children — by  the 
scruffs  of  our  little  necks,  and  use  us,  in  spite  of  our- 
selves, for  her  own  purposes,  in  her  own  way. 

Gloria.      Isn't  that  rather  fanciful.'' 

Valentine  (with  a  new  and  startling  transition  to  a 
tone  of  utter  recklessness).  I  don't  know.  I  don't  care. 
(Bursting  out  reproachfully.)  Oh,  Miss  Clandon,  Miss 
Clandon:  how  could  you? 

Gloria.     What  have  I  done? 

Valentine.  Thrown  this  enchantment  on  me.  I'm 
honestly  trying  to  be  sensible — scientific — everything 
that  you  wish  me  to  be.  But — but — oh,  don't  you  see 
what  you  have  set  to  work  in  my  imagination? 

Gloria  (with  indignant,  scornful  sternness).  I  hope 
you  are  not  going  to  be  so  foolish — so  vulgar — as  to  say 
love. 

Valentine  (ivith  ironical  haste  to  disclaim  such  a 
weakness).  No,  no,  no.  Not  love:  we  know  better  than 
that.  Let's  call  it  chemistry.  You  can't  deny  that  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  chemical  action,  chemical  affinity, 
chemical  combination — the  most  irresistible  of  all  natu- 
ral forces.  Well,  you're  attracting  me  irresistibly — 
chemically. 

Gloria   (contemptuously).     Nonsense! 

Valentine.     Of  course  it's  nonsense,  you  stupid  girl. 


Act  n  You  Never  Can  Tell  287 

(Gloria  recoils  in  outraged  surprise.)  Yes,  stupid  girl: 
that's  a  scientific  fact,  anyhow.  You're  a  prig — a 
feminine  prig:  that's  what  you  are.  {Rising.)  Now 
I  suppose  you've  done  with  me  for  ever.  {He  goes  to 
the  iron  table  and  takes  up  his  hat.) 

Gloria  {rvith  elaborate  calm,  sitting  up  like  a  High- 
school-mistress  posing  to  be  photographed).  That  shows 
how  very  little  you  understand  my  real  character.  I  am 
not  in  the  least  offended.  {He  pauses  arid  puts  liis  hat 
down  again.)  I  am  always  willing  to  be  told  of  my  own 
defects,  Mr.  Valentine,  by  my  friends,  even  when  they 
are  as  absurdly  mistaken  about  me  as  you  are.  I  have 
many  faults — very  serious  faults — of  character  and  tem- 
per ;  but  if  there  is  one  thing  that  I  am  not,  it  is  what  you 
call  a  prig.  {She  closes  her  lips  trimly  and  looks 
steadily  and  challengingly  at  him  as  she  sits  Tuore  col- 
lectedly than  ever.) 

Valentine  {returning  to  the  end  of  the  garden  seat  to 
confront  her  more  emphatically).  Oh,  yes,  you  are. 
My  reason  tells  me  so:  my  knowledge  tells  me  so:  my 
experience  tells  me  so. 

Gloria.  Excuse  my  reminding  you  that  your  reason 
and  your  knowledge  and  your  experience  are  not  infal- 
lible.    At  least  I  hope  not. 

Valentine.  I  must  believe  them.  Unless  you  wish 
me  to  believe  my  eyes,  my  heart,  my  instincts,  my  imag- 
ination, which  are  all  telling  me  the  most  monstrous  lies 
about  you. 

Gloria  {the  collectedness  beginning  to  relax).     Lies! 

Valentine  {obstinately).  Yes,  lies.  {He  sits  down 
again  beside  her.)  Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that  you 
are  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world  .^ 

Gloria.      That  is  ridiculous,  and  rather  personal. 

Valentine.  Of  course  it's  ridiculous.  Well,  that's 
what  my  eyes  tell  me.  {Gloria  makes  a  movement  of 
contemptuous  protest.)  No:  I'm  not  flattering.  I  tell 
you  I  don't  believe  it.     {She  is  ashamed  to  find  that  this 


288  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

does  not  quite  please  her  either.)  Do  you  think  that  if 
you  were  to  turn  away  in  disgust  from  my  weakness,  I 
should  sit  down  here  and  cry  like  a  child? 

Gloria  {beginning  to  find  that  she  must  speak  shortly 
and  pointedly  to  keep  her  voice  steady).  Why  should 
you,  pray? 

Valentine  {with  a  stir  of  feeling  beginning  to  agi- 
tate his  voice).  Of  course  not:  I'm  not  such  an  idiot. 
And  yet  my  heart  tells  me  I  should — my  fool  of  a  heart. 
But  I'll  argue  with  my  heart  and  bring  it  to  reason.  If 
I  loved  you  a  thousand  times,  I'll  force  myself  to  look 
the  truth  steadily  in  the  face.  After  all,  it's  easy  to  be 
sensible:  the  facts  are  the  facts.  What's  this  place? 
it's  not  heaven:  it's  the  Marine  Hotel.  What's  the 
time?  it's  not  eternity:  it's  about  half  past  one  in  the 
afternoon.  What  am  I  ?  a  dentist — a  five  shilling 
dentist ! 

Gloria.     And  I  am  a  feminine  prig. 

Valentine  {passionately).  No,  no:  I  can't  face 
that:  I  must  have  one  illusion  left — the  illusion  about 
you.  I  love  you.  {He  turns  towards  her  as  if  the  im- 
pulse to  touch  her  were  ungovernable:  she  rises  and 
stands  on  her  guard  wrathfully.  He  springs  up  impa- 
tiently and  retreats  a  step.)  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  am! — an 
idiot !  You  don't  understand :  I  might  as  well  talk  to  the 
stones  on  the  beach.     {He  turns  away,  discouraged.) 

Gloria  {reassured  by  his  withdrawal,  and  a  little  re- 
morseful). I  am  sorry.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  unsym- 
pathetic, INIr.  Valentine;  but  what  can  I  say? 

Valentine  {returning  to  her  with  all  his  recklessness 
of  manner  replaced  by  an  engaging  and  chivalrous  re- 
spect). You  can  say  nothing.  Miss  Clandon.  I  beg 
your  pardon :  it  was  my  own  fault,  or  rather  my  own  bad 
luck.  You  see,  it  all  depended  on  your  naturally  liking 
me.  {She  is  about  to  speak:  he  stops  her  deprecatingly.) 
Oh,  I  know  you  mustn't  tell  me  whether  you  like  me 
or  not;  but 


Act  II  You  Never  Can  Tell  289 

Gloria  (Jier  principles  up  in  arms  at  once).  Must 
not !  Why  not  ?  I  am  a  free  woman :  why  should  I  not 
tell  you? 

Valentine  (pleading  in  terror,  and  retreating). 
Don't.     I'm  afraid  to  hear. 

Gloria  (no  longer  scornful).  You  need  not  be 
afraid.  I  think  you  are  sentimental,  and  a  little  foolish; 
but  I  like  you. 

Valentine  (dropping  into  the  iron  chair  as  if 
crushed).  Then  it's  all  over.  (He  becomes  the  picture 
of  despair.) 

Gloria  (puzzled,  approaching  him).     But  why? 

Valentine.  Because  liking  is  not  enough.  Now  that 
I  think  down  into  it  seriously,  I  don't  know  whether  I 
like  you  or  not. 

Gloria  (looking  down  at  him  rvith  wondering  con- 
cern).     I'm  sorry. 

Valentine  (in  an  agony  of  restrained  passion).  Oh, 
don't  pity  me.  Your  voice  is  tearing  my  heart  to  pieces. 
Let  me  alone,  Gloria.  You  go  down  into  the  very  depths 
of  me,  troubling  and  stirring  me — I  can't  struggle  with 
it — I  can't  tell  you 

Gloria  (breaking  down  suddenly).  Oh,  stop  telling 
me  what  you  feel:  I  can't  bear  it. 

Valentine  (springing  up  triumphantly,  the  agonized 
voice  now  solid,  ringing,  and  jubilant).  Ah,  it's  come  at 
last — my  moment  of  courage.  (He  seizes  her  hands:  she 
looks  at  him  in  terror.)  Our  moment  of  courage!  (He 
drarvs  her  to  him;  kisses  her  with  impetuous  strength; 
and  laughs  boyishly.)  Now  you've  done  it,  Gloria.  It's 
all  over:  we're  in  love  with  one  another.  (She  can  only 
gasp  at  him.)  But  what  a  dragon  you  were!  And  how 
hideously  afraid  I  was ! 

Philip's  Voice  (calling  from  the  beach).     Valentine! 

Dolly's  Voice.      Mr.  Valentine  ! 

Valentine.  Good-bye.  Forgive  me.  (He  rapidly 
hisses  her  hands,  and  runs  away  to  the  steps,  tvhere  he 


290  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  II 

meets  Mrs.  Clandon,  ascending.  Gloria,  quite  lost,  can 
only  stare  after  him.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  The  children  want  you,  Mr.  Valen- 
tine.    (^She  looks  anxiously  round.)     Is  he  gone? 

Valentine  {puzzled).  He?  {Recollecting.)  Oh, 
Crampton.  Gone  this  long  time,  Mrs.  Clandon.  {He 
runs  off  buoyantly  dorvn  the  steps.) 

Gloria  {sinking  upon  the  seat).     Mother! 

Mrs.  Clandon  {hurrying  to  her  in  alarm).  What  is 
it,  dear? 

Gloria  {with  heartfelt,  appealing  reproach).  Why 
didn't  you  educate  me  properly? 

Mrs.  Clandon  {amazed).     My  child:  I  did  my  best. 

Gloria.     Oh,  you  taught  me  nothing — nothing. 

Mrs.   Clandon.     AVhat  is  the  matter  with  you? 

Gloria  {with  the  most  intense  expression).  Only 
shame — shame — shame.  {Blushing  unendurably,  she 
covers  her  face  with  her  hands  and  turns  away  from  her 
mother.) 

END    OF    ACT    II. 


ACT    III 

The  Clandons'  sitting  room  in  the  hotel.  An  expen- 
sive apartment  on  the  ground  floor,  with  a  French 
window  leading  to  the  gardens.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  is  a  substantial  table,  surrounded  by  chairs,  and 
draped  with  a  maroon  cloth  on  which  opulently  bound 
hotel  and  railway  guides  are  displayed.  A  visitor  en- 
tering through  the  window  and  coming  down  to  this 
central  table  would  have  the  fireplace  on  his  left,  and  a 
writing  table  against  the  wall  on  his  right,  next  the  door, 
which  is  further  down.  He  would,  if  his  taste  lay  that 
way,  admire  the  wall  decoration  of  Lincrusta  Walton 
in  plum  color  and  bronze  lacquer,  with  dado  and  cor- 
nice; the  ormolu  consoles  in  the  corners;  the  vases  on 
pillar  pedestals  of  veined  marble  with  bases  of  polished 
black  wood,  one  on  each  side  of  the  window;  the  orna- 
mental cabinet  next  the  vase  on  the  side  nearest  the 
fireplace,  its  centre  compartment  closed  by  an  inlaid 
door,  and  its  corners  rounded  off  with  curved  panes  of 
glass  protecting  shelves  of  cheap  blue  and  white  pot- 
tery; the  bamboo  tea  table,  with  folding  shelves,  in  the 
corresponding  space  on  the  other  side  of  the  window; 
the  pictures  of  ocean  steamers  and  Landseer's  dogs;  the 
saddlebag  ottoman  in  line  with  the  door  but  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room;  the  two  comfortable  seats  of  the  same 
pattern  on  the  hearthrug;  and  finally,  on  turning  round 
and  looking  up,  the  massive  brass  pole  above  the  win- 
dow, sustaining  a  pair  of  maroon  rep  curtains  with  dec- 
orated borders  of  staid  green.  Altogether,  a  room  well 
arranged  to  flatter  the  occupant's  sense  of  importance, 
and  reconcile  him  to  a  charge  of  a  pound  a  day  for  its 
use. 

Mrs.    Clandon   sits    at    the    writijig    table,    correcting 

291 


292  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  III 

proofs.  Gloria  is  standing  at  the  windorv,  looking  out 
in  a  tormented  revery. 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  strikes  five  rvith  a  sickly 
clink,  the  hell  being  unable  to  hear  up  against  the  black 
marble  cenotaph  in  which  it  is  immured. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Five !  I  don't  think  we  need  wait 
any  longer  for  the  children.  They  are  sure  to  get  tea 
somewhere. 

Gloria  (wearily).     Shall  I  ring? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Do,  my  dear.  (Gloria  goes  to  the 
hearth  and  rings.)  I  have  finished  these  proofs  at  last, 
thank  goodness ! 

Gloria  (strolling  listlessly  across  the  room  and  com- 
ing behind  her  mother's  chair).     What  proofs.^ 

Mrs.  Clandon.  The  new  edition  of  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury Women. 

Gloria  (with  a  bitter  smile).  There's  a  chapter  miss- 
ing. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (beginning  to  hunt  among  her  proofs). 
Is  there?     Surely  not. 

Gloria.  I  mean  an  unwritten  one.  Perhaps  I  shall 
write  it  for  you — when  I  know  the  end  of  it.  (She  goes 
back  to  the  window.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Gloria!     More  enigmas! 

Gloria.     Oh,  no.     The  same  enigma. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (puzzled  and  rather  troubled;  after 
■watching  her  for  a  moment).     My  dear. 

Gloria   (returning).     Yes. 

Mrs.  Clandon.      You  know  I  never  ask  questions. 

Gloria  (kneeling  beside  her  chair).  I  know,  I 
know.  (She  suddenly  throws  her  arms  about  her  mother 
and  embraces  her  almost  passionately.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (gently,  smiling  but  embarrassed). 
My  dear:  you  are  getting  quite  sentimental. 

Gloria  (recoiling).  Ah,  no,  no.  Oh,  don't  say  that. 
Oh !  (She  rises  and  turns  away  with  a  gesture  as  if 
tearing  herself.) 


Act  m  You  Never  Can  Tell  293 

Mrs.  Clandon  {mildly).  My  dear:  what  is  the  mat- 
ter?    What —     {The  waiter  enters  with  the  tea-tray.) 

Waiter  {balmily).  This  was  what  you  rang  for, 
ma'am,  I  hope? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Thank  you,  yes.  {She  turns  her 
chair  away  from  the  writing  table,  and  sits  down  again. 
Gloria  crosses  to  the  hearth  and  sits  crouching  there 
with  her  face  averted.) 

Waiter  {placing  the  tray  temporarily  on  the  centre 
table).  I  thought  so,  ma'am.  Curious  how  the  nerves 
seem  to  give  out  in  the  afternoon  without  a  cup  of  tea. 
{He  fetches  the  tea  table  and  places  it  in  front  of  Mrs. 
Clandon,  conversing  meanwhile.)  The  young  lady  and 
gentleman  have  just  come  back,  ma'am:  they  have  been 
out  in  a  boat,  ma'am.  Very  pleasant  on  a  fine  after- 
noon like  this — very  pleasant  and  invigorating  indeed. 
{He  takes  the  tray  from  the  centre  table  and  puts  it  on 
the  tea  table.)  Mr.  McComas  will  not  come  to  tea, 
ma'am:  he  has  gone  to  call  upon  Mr.  Crampton.  {He 
takes  a  couple  of  chairs  and  sets  one  at  each  end  of  the 
tea  table.) 

Gloria  {looking  round  with  an  impulse  of  terror). 
And  the  other  gentleman? 

Waiter  {reassuringly,  as  he  unconsciously  drops  for 
a  moment  into  the  measure  of  "  I've  been  roaming," 
which  he  sang  when  a  boy.)  Oh,  he's  coming,  miss,  he's 
coming.  He  has  been  rowing  the  boat,  miss,  and  has 
just  run  down  the  road  to  the  chemist's  for  something  to 
put  on  the  blisters.  But  he  will  be  here  directly,  miss — 
directly.  {Gloria,  in  ungovernable  apprehension,  rises 
and  hurries  towards  the  door.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  {half  rising).  Glo —  {Gloria  goes 
out.  Mrs.  Clandon  looks  perplexedly  at  the  waiter, 
whose  composure  is  unruffled.) 

Waiter    {cheerfully).     Anything   more,   ma'am? 

Mrs.    Clandon.      Nothing,   thank   you. 

Waiter.     Thank   you,    ma'am.      {As    he    withdraws. 


294  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  III 

Phil  and  Dolly,  in  the  highest  spiiits,  come  tearing  in. 
He  holds  the  door  open  for  them;  then  goes  out  and 
closes  it.) 

Dolly  (ravenously).  Oh,  give  me  some  tea.  (Mrs. 
Clandon  pours  out  a  cup  for  her.)  We've  been  out  in  a 
boat.     Valentine  will  be  here  presently. 

Philip.  He  is  imaccustomed  to  navigation.  Where's 
Gloria  ? 

]\Irs.  Clandon  (anxiously,  as  she  pours  out  his  tea). 
Phil:  there  is  something  the  matter  with  Gloria.  Has 
anything  happened.''  (Phil  and  Dolly  look  at  one  an- 
other and  stifle  a  laugh.)     What  is  it.^ 

Philip   (sitting  down  on  her  left).     Romeo 

Dolly  (sitting  down  on  her  right).       — and  Juliet. 

Philip  (taking  his  cup  of  tea  from  Mrs.  Clandon). 
Yes,  my  dear  mother:  the  old,  old  story.  Dolly:  don't 
take  all  the  milk.  (He  deftly  takes  the  jug  from  her.) 
Yes:  in  the  spring 

Dolly.     — a  young  man's  fancy 

Philip.  — lightly  turns  to — thank  you  (to  Mrs. 
Clandon,  who  has  passed  the  biscuits)  — thoughts  of 
love.  It  also  occurs  in  the  autumn.  The  young  man  in 
this  case  is 

Dolly.     Valentine. 

Philip.  And  his  fancy  has  turned  to  Gloria  to  the 
extent  of 


Dolly.     — kissing  her 

Philip.     — on  the  terrace- 


Dolly  (correcting  him).  — on  the  lips,  before  every- 
body. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (incredulously).  Phil!  Dolly!  Are 
you  j  oking  }    (  They  shake  their  heads. )    Did  she  allow  it  ? 

Philip.  We  waited  to  see  him  struck  to  earth  by  the 
lightning  of  her  scorn; 

Dolly,     ^but  he  wasn't. 

Philip.     She  appeared  to  like  it. 

Dolly.     As  far  as  we  could  judge.     (Stopping  Phil, 


Act  III  You  Never  Can  Tell  295 

rvho  is  about  to  pour  out  another  cup.)  No:  you've 
sworn  off  two  cups. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (much  troubled).  Children:  you  must 
not  be  here  when  Mr.  Valentine  comes.  I  must  speak 
very  seriously  to  him  about  this. 

Philip.  To  ask  him  his  intentions?  What  a  viola- 
tion of  Twentieth  Century  principles ! 

Dolly.  Quite  rights  mamma :  bring  him  to  book. 
Make  the  most  of  the  nineteenth  century  Avhile  it  lasts. 

Philip.     Sh !     Here  he  is.     {Valentine  comes  in.) 

Valentine.  Very  sorry  to  be  late  for  tea,  Mrs. 
Clandon.  {She  takes  up  the  tea-pot.)  No,  thank  you: 
I  never  take  any.  No  doubt  Miss  Dolly  and  Phil  have 
explained  what  happened  to  me. 

Philip  {momentously  rising).  Yes,  Valentine:  we 
have  explained. 

Dolly  {significantly,  also  rising).  We  have  ex- 
plained very  thoroughly. 

Philip.  It  was  our  duty.  {Very  seriously.)  Come, 
Dolly.  {He  offers  Dolly  his  arm,  which  she  takes. 
They  look  sadly  at  him,  and  go  out  gravely,  arm  in  arm. 
Valentine  stares  after  them,  puzzled;  then  looks  at  Mrs. 
Clandon  for  an  explanation.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  {rising  and  leaving  the  tea  fable). 
Will  you  sit  down,  ]Mr.  Valentine.  I  want  to  speak  to 
you  a  little,  if  you  will  allow  me.  {Valentine  sits  down 
slowly  on  the  ottoman,  his  conscience  presaging  a  bad 
quarter  of  an  hour.  Mrs.  Clandon  takes  Phil's  chair, 
and  seats  herself  deliberately  at  a  convenient  distance 
from  him.)  I  must  begin  by  throwing  myself  somewhat 
on  your  consideration.  I  am  going  to  speak  of  a  sub- 
ject of  which  I  know  very  little — perhaps  nothing.  I 
mean  love. 

Valentine.      Love ! 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Yes,  love.  Oh,  you  need  not  look  so 
alarmed  as  that,  Mr.  Valentine:  /  am  not  in  love  with 
you. 


296  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IH 

Valentine  (overwhelmed) .  Oh,  really,  Mrs. —  {Re- 
covering himself.)  I  should  be  only  too  proud  if  you 
were. 

JNIrs.  Clandon.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Valentine.  But  I 
am  too  old  to  begin. 

Valentine.     Begin!     Have  you  never ? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Never.  My  case  is  a  very  common 
one,  Mr.  Valentine.  I  married  before  I  was  old  enough 
to  know  what  I  was  doing.  As  you  have  seen  for  your- 
self, the  result  was  a  bitter  disappointment  for  both 
my  husband  and  myself.  So  you  see,  though  I  am  a 
married  woman,  I  have  never  been  in  love;  I  have  never 
had  a  love  affair;  and  to  be  quite  frank  with  you,  Mr. 
Valentine,  what  I  have  seen  of  the  love  affairs  of  other 
people  has  not  led  me  to  regret  that  deficiency  in  my  ex- 
perience. (Valentine,  looking  very  glum,,  glances  scep- 
tically at  her,  and  says  nothing.  Her  color  rises  a  little; 
and  she  adds,  with  restrained  anger)  You  do  not  be- 
lieve me? 

Valentine  (confused  at  having  his  thought  read). 
Oh,  why  not?     Why  not? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Valentine,  that 
a  life  devoted  to  the  Cause  of  Humanity  has  enthusiasms 
and  passions  to  offer  which  far  transcend  the  selfish 
personal  infatuations  and  sentimentalities  of  romance. 
Those  are  not  your  enthusiasms  and  passions,  I  take  it? 
(Valentine,  quite  aware  that  she  despises  him  for  it, 
answers  in  the  negative  with  a  melancholy  shake  of  the 
head.)  I  thought  not.  Well,  I  am  equally  at  a  disad- 
vantage in  discussing  those  so-called  affairs  of  the  heart 
in  which  you  appear  to  be  an  expert. 

Valentine  (restlessly).  What  are  you  driving  at, 
Mrs.  Clandon? 

Mrs.  Clandon.      I  think  you  know. 

Valentine.     Gloria? 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Yes.     Gloria. 

Valentine    (surrendering).     Well,  yes:  I'm  in  love 


Act  III  You  Never  Can  Tell  297 

with  Gloria,  (^Interposing  as  she  is  about  to  speak.^  I 
know  what  you're  going  to  say:  I've  no  money. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  care  very  Little  about  money,  Mr. 
Valentine. 

Valentine.  Then  you're  very  different  to  all  the 
other  mothers  who  have  interviewed  me. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Ah,  now  we  are  coming  to  it,  Mr. 
Valentine.  You  are  an  old  hand  at  this.  {He  opens  his 
mouth  to  protest:  she  cuts  him  short  with  some  indigna- 
tion.) Oh,  do  you  think,  little  as  I  understand  these 
matters,  that  I  have  not  common  sense  enough  to  know 
that  a  man  who  could  make  as  much  way  in  one  inter- 
view with  such  a  woman  as  my  daughter,  can  hardly  be 
a  novice ! 

Valentine.     I  assure  you- 


Mrs.  Clandon  (stopping  him).  I  am  not  blaming 
you,  Mr.  Valentine.  It  is  Gloria's  business  to  take  care 
of  herself;  and  you  have  a  right  to  amuse  yourself  as 
you  please.     But 

Valentine  (protesting).  Amuse  myself!  Oh,  Mrs. 
Clandon ! 

Mrs.  Clandon  (relentlessly).  On  your  honor,  Mr. 
Valentine,  are  you  in  earnest? 

Valentine  (desperately).  On  my  honor  I  am  in 
earnest.  (She  looks  searchingly  at  him.  His  sense  of 
humor  gets  the  better  of  him;  and  he  adds  quaintly) 
Only,  I  always  have  been  in  earnest;  and  yet — here  I 
am,  you  see ! 

Mrs.  Clandon.  This  is  just  what  I  suspected.  (Se- 
verely.) Mr.  Valentine:  you  are  one  of  those  men  who 
play  with  women's  affections. 

Valentine.  Well,  why  not,  if  the  Cause  of  Hu- 
manity is  the  only  thing  worth  being  serious  about? 
However,  I  understand.  (Rising  and  taking  his  hat 
with  formal  politeness.)  You  wish  me  to  discontinue 
my  visits. 

Mrs.  Clandon.     No:  I  am  sensible  enough  to  be  well 


298  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  III 

aware  that  Gloria's  best  chance  of  escape  from  you  now 
is  to  become  better  acquainted  with  you. 

Valentine  (unaffectedly  alarmed).  Oh,  don't  say- 
that,  Mrs.  Clandon.     You  don't  think  that,  do  you? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  have  great  faith,  Mr.  Valentine, 
in  the  sound  training  Gloria's  mind  has  had  since  she 
was  a  child. 

Valentine  (amazingly  relieved).  O-oh  !  Oh,  that's 
all  right.  (He  sits  down  again  and  throws  his  hat  fiip- 
pantly  aside  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  no  longer 
anything  to  fear.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (indignant  at  his  assurance).  What 
do  you  mean.'' 

Valentine  (turning  confidentially  to  her).  Come: 
shall  I  teach  you  something,  Mrs.  Clandon.? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (stiffly).  I  am  always  willing  to 
learn. 

Valentine.  Have  you  ever  studied  the  subject  of 
gunnery — artillery — cannons  and  war-ships  and  so  on.? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Has  gunnery  anything  to  do  with 
Gloria  } 

Valentine.  A  great  deal — by  way  of  illustration. 
During  this  whole  century,  my  dear  Mrs.  Clandon,  the 
progress  of  artillery  has  been  a  duel  between  the  maker 
of  cannons  and  the  maker  of  armor  plates  to  keep  the 
cannon  balls  out.  You  build  a  ship  proof  against  the 
best  gun  known :  somebody  makes  a  better  gun  and  sinks 
your  ship.  You  build  a  heavier  ship,  proof  against  that 
gun :  somebody  makes  a  heavier  gun  and  sinks  you  again. 
And  so  on.     Well,  the  duel  of  sex  is  just  like  that. 

Mrs.  Clandon.     The  duel  of  sex ! 

Valentine.  Yes:  you've  heard  of  the  duel  of  sex, 
haven't  you.?  Oh,  I  forgot:  you've  been  in  Madeira: 
the  expression  has  come  up  since  your  time.  Need  I 
explain  it.? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (contemptuously).     No. 

Valentine.     Of  course  not.     Now  what  happens  in 


Act  III  You  Never  Can  Tell  299 

the  duel  of  sex?  The  old  fashioned  mother  received  an 
old  fashioned  education  to  protect  her  against  the  wiles 
of  man.  Well,  you  know  the  result:  the  old  fashioned 
man  got  round  her.  The  old  fashioned  woman  resolved 
to  protect  her  daughter  more  effectually — to  find  some 
armor  too  strong  for  the  old  fashioned  man.  So  she 
gave  her  daughter  a  scientific  education — your  plan. 
That  was  a  corker  for  the  old  fashioned  man:  he  said 
it  wasn't  fair — unwomanly  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  But 
that  didn't  do  him  any  good.  So  he  had  to  give  u})  his 
old  fashioned  plan  of  attack — you  know — going  down 
on  his  knees  and  swearing  to  love,  honor  and  obey,  and 
so  on. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Excuse  me:  that  was  what  the 
woman  swore. 

Valentine.  Was  it?  Ah,  perhaps  you're  right — 
yes :  of  course  it  was.  Well,  what  did  the  man  do  ?  Just 
what  the  artillery  man  does — went  one  better  than  the 
woman — educated  himself  scientifically  and  beat  her  at 
that  game  just  as  he  had  beaten  her  at  the  old  game. 
I  learnt  how  to  circumvent  the  Women's  Rights  woman 
before  I  was  twenty-three:  it's  all  been  found  out  long 
ago.     You  see,  my  methods  are  thoroughly  modern. 

Mrs.  Clandon   (with  quiet  disgust).     No  doubt. 

Valentine.  But  for  that  very  reason  there's  one 
sort  of  girl  against  whom  they  are  of  no  use. 

Mrs.  Clandon.      Pray  which  sort? 

Valentine.  The  thoroughly  old  fashioned  girl.  If 
you  had  brought  up  Gloria  in  the  old  way,  it  would  have 
taken  me  eighteen  months  to  get  to  the  point  I  got 
to  this  afternoon  in  eighteen  minutes.  Yes,  Mrs.  Clan- 
don: the  Higher  Education  of  Women  delivered  Gloria 
into  my  hands ;  and  it  was  you  who  taught  her  to  be- 
lieve in  the  Higher  Education  of  Women. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (rising).  Mr.  Valentine:  you  are 
very  clever. 

Valentine   (rising  also).     Oh,  Mrs.  Clandon! 


300  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  III 

I\Ius.  Clandon.  And  you  have  taught  me  nothing. 
Good-bye. 

Valentine  (horrified).  Good-bye!  Oh,  mayn't  I 
see  her  before  I  go? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  am  afraid  she  will  not  return  until 
you  have  gone,  Mr.  Valentine.  She  left  the  room  ex- 
pressly to  avoid  you. 

Valentine  {thoughtfully).  That's  a  good  sign. 
Good-bye.  {He  horvs  and  makes  for  the  door,  appar- 
entlij  well  satis  fed.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  {alarmed).  Why  do  you  think  it  a 
good  sign  ? 

Valentine  {turning  near  the  door).  Because  I  am 
mortally  afraid  of  her;  and  it  looks  as  if  she  were 
mortally  afraid  of  me.  {He  turns  to  go  and  finds  him- 
self face  to  face  with  Gloria,  who  has  just  entered.  She 
looks  steadfastly  at  him.  He  stares  helplessly  at  her; 
then  round  at  Mrs.  Clandon;  then  at  Gloria  again,  com- 
pletely at  a  loss.) 

Gloria  {white,  and  controlling  herself  with  diffi- 
culty).    Mother:  is  what  Dolly  told  me  true? 

Mrs.  Clandon.     What  did  she  tell  you,  dear? 

Gloria.  That  you  have  been  speaking  about  me  to 
this  gentleman. 

Valentine    {murmuring).     This  gentleman!     Oh! 

Mrs.  Clandon  {sharply).  Mr.  Valentine:  can  you 
hold  your  tongue  for  a  moment?  {He  looks  piteously  at 
them;  then,  with  a  despairing  shrug,  goes  back  to  the 
ottoman  and  throws   his  hat  on  it.) 

Gloria  {confronting  her  mother,  with  deep  reproach). 
Mother:  what  right  had  you  to  do  it? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  don't  think  I  have  said  anything 
I  have  no  right  to  say,  Gloria. 

Valentine  {confirming  her  officiously).  Nothing. 
Nothing  whatever.  {Gloria  looks  at  him  with  unspeak- 
able indignation.)  I  beg  your  pardon.  {He  sits  down 
ignominiously  on  the  ottoman.) 


Act  III  You  Never  Can  Tell  301 

Gloria.  I  cannot  believe  that  any  one  has  any  right 
even  to  think  about  things  that  concern  me  only.  {She 
turns  away  from  them  to  conceal  a  painful  struggle 
with  her  emotion.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  My  dear,  if  I  have  wounded  your 
pride 

Gloria  (turning  on  them  for  a  moment).  My  pride! 
My  pride!!  Oh,  it's  gone:  I  have  learnt  now  that  I 
have  no  strength  to  be  proud  of.  (Turning  away 
again.)  But  if  a  woman  cannot  protect  herself,  no  one 
can  protect  her.  No  one  has  any  right  to  try — not  even 
her  mother.  I  know  I  have  lost  your  confidence,  just  as 
I  have  lost  this  man's  respect; —  (She  stops  to  master  a 
sob.) 

Valentine  (under  his  breath).  This  man!  (Mur- 
muring again.)     Oh! 

Mrs.  Clandon  (in  an  undertone).  Pray  be  silent, 
sir. 

Gloria  (continuing).  — but  I  have  at  least  the  right 
to  be  left  alone  in  my  disgrace.  I  am  one  of  those 
weak  creatures  born  to  be  mastered  by  the  first  man 
whose  eye  is  caught  by  them;  and  I  must  fulfil  my 
destiny,  I  suppose.  At  least  spare  me  the  humiliation  of 
trying  to  save  me.  (She  sits  down,  with  her  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table.) 

Valentine   (jumping  up).     Look  here 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Mr.  Va 

Valentine  (recklessly).  No:  I  will  speak:  I've 
been  silent  for  nearly  thirty  seconds.  (He  goes  up  to 
Gloria.)     Miss  Clandon 

Gloria  (bitterly).  Oh,  not  Miss  Clandon:  you  have 
found  that  it  is  quite  safe  to  call  me  Gloria. 

Valentine.  No,  I  won't:  you'll  throw  it  in  my  teeth 
afterwards  and  accuse  me  of  disrespect.  I  say  it's  a 
heartbreaking  falsehood  that  I  don't  respect  you.  It's 
true  that  I  didn't  respect  your  old  pride:  why  should  I? 
It  was  nothing  but  cowardice.     I  didn't  respect  your  in- 


302  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  m 

tellect:  I've  a  better  one  myself:  it's  a  masculine  spe- 
cialty. But  when  the  depths  stirred ! — when  my  moment 
came ! — when  you  made  me  brave ! — ah,  then,  then, 
then! 

Gloria,     Then  you  respected  me,  I  suppose. 

Valentine.  No,  I  didn't:  I  adored  you.  (She  rises 
quicldy  and  turns  her  hack  on  him.)  And  you  can  never 
take  that  moment  away  from  me.  So  now  I  don't  care 
what  happens.  (He  comes  down  the  room  addressing  a 
cheerful  explanation  to  nobody  in  particidar.)  I'm  per- 
fectly aware  that  I'm  talking  nonsense.  I  can't  help  it. 
(2'o  Mrs.  Clandon.)  I  love  Gloria;  and  there's  an  end 
of  it. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (emphatically).  Mr.  Valentine:  you 
are  a  most  dangerous  man.  Gloria:  come  here.  (Gloria, 
wondering  a  little  at  the  command,  obeys,  and  stands, 
with  drooping  head,  on  her  mother's  right  hand,  Valen- 
tine being  on  the  opposite  side.  Mrs.  Clandon  then  he- 
gins,  with  intense  scorn.)  Ask  this  man  whom  you  have 
inspired  and  made  brave,  how  many  women  have  in- 
spired him  before  (Gloria  looks  tip  suddenly  with  a 
flash  of  jealous  anger  and  amazement)  ;  how  many  times 
he  has  laid  the  trap  in  which  he  has  caught  you;  how 
often  he  has  baited  it  with  the  same  speeches;  how  much 
practice  it  has  taken  to  make  him  perfect  in  his  chosen 
part  in  life  as  the  Duellist  of  Sex. 

Valentine.  This  isn't  fair.  You're  abusing  my  con- 
fidence, Mrs.  Clandon. 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Ask  him,  Gloria. 

Gloria  (in  a  flush  of  rage,  going  over  to  him  with 
her  fists  clenched).     Is  that  true.'' 

Valentine.     Don't  be  angry 

Gloria  (interrupting  hi?n  implacably).  Is  it  true? 
Did  you  ever  say  that  before.''  Did  you  ever  feel  that 
before — for  another  woman? 

Valentine  (bluntly).  Yes.  (Gloria  raises  her 
clenched  hands.) 


Act  m  You  Never  Can  Tell  303 

Mrs.  Clandon  (horrified,  springing  to  her  side  and 
catching  her  tiplif  ted  arm).  Gloria!!  My  dear  !  You're 
forgetting  yourself.  (^Gloria,  with  a  deep  expiration, 
slowly  relaxes  her  threatening  attitude.) 

Valentine.  Remember:  a  man's  power  of  love  and 
admiration  is  like  any  other  of  his  powers:  he  has  to 
throw  it  away  many  times  before  he  learns  what  is 
really  Avorthy  of  it. 

ISIrs.  Clandon.  Another  of  the  old  speeches,  Gloria. 
Take  care. 

Valentine  {remonstrating).     Oh! 

Gloria  {to  Mrs.  Clandon,  with  contemptuous  self- 
possession).  Do  you  think  I  need  to  be  warned  now? 
{To  Valentine.)     You  have  tried  to  make  me  love  you. 

Valentine.     I  have. 

Gloria.  Well,  you  have  succeeded  in  making  me 
hate  you — passionately. 

Valentine  {philosophically).  It's  surprising  how 
little  difference  there  is  between  the  two.  {Gloria  turns 
indignantly  away  from  him.  He  continues,  to  Mrs.  Clan- 
don) I  know  men  whose  wives  love  them;  and  they  go 
on  exactly  like  that. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Valentine;  but  had 
you  not  better  go? 

Gloria.  You  need  not  send  him  away  on  my  account, 
mother.  He  is  nothing  to  me  now;  and  he  will  amuse 
Dolly  and  Phil.  {She  sits  down  with  slighting  indiffer- 
ence, at  the  end  of  the  table  nearest  the  window.) 

Valentine  {gaily).  Of  course:  that's  the  sensible 
way  of  looking  at  it.  Come,  Mrs.  Clandon:  you  can't 
quarrel  with  a  mere  butterfly  like  me. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  very  greatly  mistrust  you,  Mr. 
Valentine.  But  I  do  not  like  to  think  that  your  unfort- 
unate levity  of  disposition  is  mere  shamelessness  and 
worthlessness ; 

Gloria  {to  herself,  hut  aloud).  It  is  shameless;  and 
it  is  worthless. 


304  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  III 

Mrs.  Clandon.  — so  perhaps  we  had  better  send  for 
Phil  and  Dolly  and  allow  you  to  end  your  visit  in  the 
ordinary  way. 

Valentine  {as  if  she  had  paid  him  the  highest  com- 
pliment). You  overwhelm  me,  Mrs.  Clandon,  Thank 
you.     {The  waiter  enters.) 

Waiter.      Mr.   McComas,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Oh,  certainly.     Bring  him  in. 

Waiter.  He  wishes  to  see  you  in  the  reception-room, 
ma'am. 

Mrs.   Clandon.     Wliy  not  here? 

Waiter.  Well,  if  you  will  excuse  my  mentioning  it, 
ma'am,  I  think  Mr.  McComas  feels  that  he  would  get 
fairer  play  if  he  could  speak  to  you  away  from  the 
younger  members  of  your  family,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Clandon.      Tell  him  they  are  not  here. 

Waiter.  They  are  within  sight  of  the  door,  ma'am; 
and  very  watchful,  for  some  reason  or  other. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (going).  Oh,  very  well:  I'll  go  to 
him. 

Waiter  (holding  the  door  open  for  her).  Thank  you, 
ma'am.  (Ske  goes  out.  He  comes  back  into  the  room, 
and  meets  the  eye  of  Valentine,  who  wants  him  to  go.) 
All  right,  sir.  Only  the  tea-things,  sir.  (Taking  the 
tray.)     Excuse  me,  sir.     Thank  you,  sir.     (He  goes  out.) 

Valentine  (to  Gloria).  Look  here.  You  will  for- 
give me,  sooner  or  later.     Forgive  me  now. 

Gloria  (rising  to  level  the  declaration  more  intensely 
at  him).  Never!  While  grass  grows  or  water  runs, 
never,  never,  never  ! ! ! 

Valentine  (unabashed).  Well,  I  don't  care.  I  can't 
be  unhappy  about  anything.  I  shall  never  be  unhappy 
again,  never,  never,  never,  while  grass  grows  or  water 
runs.  The  thought  of  you  will  always  make  me  wild 
with  joy.  (Some  quick  taunt  is  on  her  lips:  he  inter- 
poses swiftly.)  No:  I  never  said  that  before:  that's 
new. 


Act  III  You  Never  Can  Tell  305 

Gloria.  It  will  not  be  new  when  you  say  it  to  the 
next  woman. 

Valentine.  Oh,  don't,  Gloria,  don't.  (//e  kneels 
at  her  feet.) 

Gloria.  Get  up.  Get  up!  How  dare  you?  (Phil 
and  Dolly,  racing,  as  usual,  for  first  place,  burst  into  the 
room.  They  check  themselves  on  seeing  what  is  pass- 
ing.    Valentine  springs  up.) 

Philip  (discreetly).  I  beg  your  pardon.  Come, 
Dolly,     (He  turns  to  go.) 

Gloria  (annoyed).  Mother  will  be  back  in  a  mo- 
ment, Phil.  (Severely.)  Please  wait  here  for  her. 
(She  turns  away  to  the  ivindoiv,  where  she  stands  look- 
ing out  with  her  back  to  them.) 

Philip  (significantly).     Oh,  indeed.     Hmhm! 

Dolly.     Ahah! 

Philip.     You  seem  in  excellent  spirits,  Valentine. 

Valentine.  I  am.  (Coynes  between  them.)  Now 
look  here.  You  both  know  what's  going  on,  don't  you? 
(Gloria  turns  quickly,  as  if  anticipating  some  fresh  out- 
rage.) 

Dolly.     Perfectly. 

Valentine.  Well,  it's  all  over.  I've  been  refused — 
scorned.  I'm  only  here  on  sufferance.  You  understand: 
it's  all  over.  Your  sister  is  in  no  sense  entertaining  my 
addresses,  or  condescending  to  interest  herself  in  me  in 
any  way.  (Gloria,  satisfied,  turns  back  contemptuously 
to  the  window.)      Is  that  clear? 

Dolly.  Serve  you  right.  You  were  in  too  great  a 
hurry, 

Philip  (patting  him  on  the  shoulder).  Never  mind: 
you'd  never  have  been  able  to  call  your  soul  your  own 
if  she'd  married  you.  You  can  now  begin  a  new  chap- 
ter in  your  life. 

Dolly.  Chapter  seventeen  or  thereabouts,  I  should 
imagine. 

Valentine   (much  put  out  by  this  pleasantry).     No: 


306  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  III 

don't  say  things  like  that.  That's  just  the  sort  of 
thoughtless  remark  that  makes  a  lot  of  mischief. 

Dolly.      Oh,  indeed.     Hmhm! 

Philip.  Ahah !  (//e  goes  to  the  hearth  and  plants 
himself  there  in  his  best  head-of -the- family  attitude.) 

McComas,  looking  very  serious,  comes  in  quickly  with 
Mrs.  Clan  don,  whose  first  anxiety  is  about  Gloria.  She 
looks  round  to  see  where  she  is,  and  is  going  to  join  her 
at  the  window  when  Gloria  comes  down  to  meet  her 
with  a  marked  air  of  trust  and  affection.  Finally,  Mrs. 
Clandon  takes  her  former  seat,  and  Gloria  posts  herself 
behind  it.  McComas,  on  his  way  to  the  ottoman,  is 
hailed  by  Dolly. 

Dolly.     What  cheer,  Finch? 

McComas  (sternly).  Very  serious  news  from  your 
father.  Miss  Clandon.  Very  serious  news,  indeed.  (He 
crosses  to  the  ottoman,  and  sits  down.  Dolly,  looking 
deeply  impressed,  follows  him  and  sits  beside  him  on 
his   right. ) 

Valentine.     Perhaps  I  had  better  go. 

McComas.  By  no  means,  Mr.  Valentine.  You  are 
deeply  concerned  in  this.  (Valentine  takes  a  chair  from 
the  table  and  sits  astride  of  it,  leaning  over  the  back^ 
near  the  ottoman.)  Mrs.  Clandon:  your  husband  de- 
mands the  custody  of  his  two  younger  children,  who  are 
not  of  age.  (Mrs.  Clandon,  in  quick  alarm,  looks  in- 
stinctively to  see  if  Dolly  is  safe.) 

Dolly  (touched).  Oh,  how  nice  of  him!  He  likes 
us,  mamma. 

McComas.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  disabuse  you  of 
any  such  idea.  Miss  Dorothea. 

Dolly  (cooing  ecstatically).  Dorothee-ee-ee-a ! 
(Nestling  against  his  shoulder,  quite  overcome.)  Oh, 
Finch ! 

McComas    (nervously,    moving   away).     No,   no,    no. 


no! 


Mrs.    Clandon    (remonstrating).      Dearest    Dolly! 


Act  III  You  Never  Can  Tell  307 

{To  McComas.)  The  deed  of  separation  gives  me  the 
custody  of  the  children. 

McCoMAS.  It  also  contains  a  covenant  that  you  are 
not  to  approach  or  molest  him  in  any  way. 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Well,  have  I  done  so.'* 

McCoMAS.  Whether  the  behavior  of  your  younger 
children  amounts  to  legal  molestation  is  a  question  on 
which  it  may  be  necessary  to  take  counsel's  opinion.  At 
all  events,  Mr.  Crampton  not  only  claims  to  have  been 
molested;  but  he  believes  that  he  was  brought  here  by  a 
plot  in  which  Mr.  Valentine  acted  as  your  agent. 

Valentine.     What's  that.'*     Eh? 

McCoMAS.  He  alleges  that  you  drugged  him,  Mr. 
Valentine. 

Valentine.      So  I  did.      (They  are  astonished.) 

McCoMAS.     But  what  did  you  do  that  for? 

Dolly.      Five  shillings  extra. 

McCojiAS  (to  Dolly,  short-temperedly).  1  must 
really  ask  you,  Miss  Clandon,  not  to  interrupt  this  very 
serious  conversation  with  irrelevant  interjections.  (Ve- 
hemently.)  I  insist  on  having  earnest  matters  earnestly 
and  reverently  discussed.  (This  outburst  produces  an 
apologetic  silence,  and  puts  McComas  himself  out  of 
countenance.  He  coughs,  and  starts  afresh,  addressing 
himself  to  Gloria.)  Miss  Clandon:  it  is  my  duty  to  tell 
you  that  your  father  has  also  persuaded  himself  that 
Mr.  Valentine  wishes  to  marry  you 

Valentine   (interposing  adroitly).     I  do. 

McCoMAs  (offended).  In  that  case,  sir,  you  must 
not  be  surprised  to  find  yourself  regarded  by  the  young 
lady's  father  as  a  fortune  hunter. 

Valentine.  So  I  am.  Do  you  expect  my  wife  to 
live  on  what  I  earn  ?  ten-pence  a  week ! 

McCoMAs  (revolted).  I  have  nothing  more  to  say, 
sir.  I  shall  return  and  tell  Mr,  Crampton  that  this 
family  is  no  place  for  a  father.  (He  makes  for  the 
door.) 


308  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  III 

Mrs.  Clandon  {with  quiet  authority).  Finch!  (He 
halts.)  If  Mr.  Valentine  cannot  be  serious,  you  can. 
Sit  down.  {McCovias,  after  a  brief  struggle  between  his 
dignity  and  his  friendship,  succumbs,  seating  himself 
this  time  midway  between  Dolly  and  Mrs.  Clandon.) 
You  know  that  all  this  is  a  made  up  case — that  Fergus 
does  not  believe  in  it  any  more  than  you  do.  Now  give 
me  your  real  advice — your  sincere,  friendly  advice:  you 
know  I  have  always  trusted  your  judgment.  I  promise 
you  the  children  will  be  quiet. 

McCoMAs  (resigning  himself).  Well,  well!  What  I 
want  to  say  is  this.  In  the  old  arrangement  with  your 
husband,  Mrs.  Clandon,  you  had  him  at  a  terrible  dis- 
advantage. 

Mrs.  Clandon.     How  so,  pray? 

McCoMAS.  Well,  you  were  an  advanced  woman,  ac- 
customed to  defy  public  opinion,  and  with  no  regard  for 
what  the  world  might  say  of  you. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (proud  of  it).  Yes:  that  is  true. 
(Gloria,  behind  the  chair,  stoops  and  Jcisses  her  mother's 
hair,  a  demonstration  which  disconcerts  her  extremely.) 

McComas.  On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Clandon,  your 
husband  had  a  great  horror  of  anything  getting  into  the 
papers.  There  was  his  business  to  be  considered,  as 
well  as  the  prejudices  of  an  old-fashioned  family. 

Mrs.  Clandon.      Not  to  mention  his  own  prejudices. 

McCoMAS.  Now  no  doubt  he  behaved  badly,  Mrs. 
Clandon 

Mrs.  Clandon  (scornfully).     No  doubt. 

McCoMAS.     But  was  it  altogether  his  fault.'' 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Was  it  mine.^ 

McCoMAs  (hastily).     No.     Of  course  not. 

Gloria  (observing  him  attentively).  You  do  not 
mean  that,  Mr.  McComas. 

McCoMAS.  My  dear  young  lady,  you  pick  me  up 
very  sharply.  But  let  me  just  put  this  to  you.  When  a 
man  makes  an  unsuitable  marriage  (nobody's  fault,  you 


Act  III  You  Never  Can  Tell  309 

know,  but  purely  accidental  incompatibility  of  tastes) ; 
when  he  is  deprived  by  that  misfortune  of  the  domestic 
sympathy  which;,  I  take  it,  is  what  a  man  marries  for; 
when,  in  short,  his  wife  is  rather  worse  than  no  wife 
at  all  (through  no  fault  of  her  own,  of  course),  is  it  to 
be  wondered  at  if  he  makes  matters  worse  at  first  by 
blaming  her,  and  even,  in  his  desperation,  by  occa- 
sionally drinking  himself  into  a  violent  condition  or 
seeking  sympathy  elsewhere? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  did  not  blame  him:  I  simply  res- 
cued myself  and  the  children  from  him. 

McCoMAS.  Yes;  but  you  made  hard  terms,  Mrs. 
Clandon.  You  had  him  at  your  mercy:  you  brought  him 
to  his  knees  when  you  threatened  to  make  the  matter 
public  by  applying  to  the  Courts  for  a  judicial  separa- 
tion. Suppose  he  had  had  that  power  over  you,  and  used 
it  to  take  your  children  away  from  you  and  bring  them 
up  in  ignorance  of  your  very  name,  how  would  you  feel? 
what  would  you  do?  Well,  won't  you  make  some  allow- 
ance for  his  feelings? — in  common  humanity. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  I  never  discovered  his  feelings.  I 
discovered  his  temper,  and  his — {she  shivers)  the  rest 
of  his  common  humanity. 

McComas  {wistfully).  Women  can  be  very  hard, 
Mrs.  Clandon. 

Valentine.      That's    true. 

Gloria  (angrily).     Be  silent.     {He  subsides.) 

McComas  {rallying  all  his  forces).  Let  me  make  one 
last  appeal.  Mrs.  Clandon:  believe  me,  there  are  men 
who  have  a  good  deal  of  feeling,  and  kind  feeling,  too, 
which  they  are  not  able  to  express.  What  you  miss  in 
Crampton  is  that  mere  veneer  of  civilization,  the  art 
of  shewing  worthless  attentions  and  paying  insincere 
compliments  in  a  kindly,  charming  way.  If  you  lived  in 
London,  where  the  whole  system  is  one  of  false  good- 
fellowship,  and  you  may  know  a  man  for  twenty  years 
without  finding  out  that  he  hates  you  like  poison,  you 


310  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  III 

would  soon  have  your  eyes  opened.  There  we  do  un- 
kind things  in  a  kind  way:  we  say  bitter  things  in  a 
sweet  voice :  we  always  give  our  friends  chloroform  when 
we  tear  them  to  pieces.  But  think  of  the  other  side  of 
it!  Think  of  the  people  who  do  kind  things  in  an  un- 
kind way — people  whose  touch  hurts,  whose  voices  jar, 
whose  tempers  play  them  false,  who  wound  and  Avorry 
the  people  they  love  in  the  very  act  of  trying  to  conciliate 
them,  and  yet  who  need  affection  as  much  as  the  rest  of 
us.  Crampton  has  an  abominable  temper,  I  admit.  He 
has  no  manners,  no  tact,  no  grace.  He'll  never  be  able 
to  gain  anyone's  affection  unless  they  will  take  his  desire 
for  it  on  trust.  Is  he  to  have  none — not  even  pity — 
from  his  own  flesh  and  blood? 

Dolly  {quite  melted).  Oh,  how  beautiful.  Finch! 
How  nice  of  you! 

Philip  (with  conviction).  Finch:  this  is  eloquence — 
positive  eloquence. 

Dolly.  Oh,  mamma,  let  us  give  him  another  chance. 
Let  us  have  him  to  dinner. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (timnoved).  No,  Dolly:  I  hardly  got 
any  lunch.  My  dear  Finch:  there  is  not  the  least  use  in 
talking  to  me  about  Fergus.  You  have  never  been  mar- 
ried to  him:  I  have. 

McCoMAs  (to  Gloria).  Miss  Clandon:  I  have  hither- 
to refrained  from  appealing  to  you,  because,  if  what  Mr. 
Crampton  told  me  to  be  true,  you  have  been  more  merci- 
less even  than  your  mother. 

Gloria  (defiantly).  You  appeal  from  her  strength 
to  my  weakness ! 

McCoMAs.  Not  your  weakness.  Miss  Clandon.  I  ap- 
peal from  her  intellect  to  your  heart. 

Gloria.  I  have  learnt  to  mistrust  my  heart.  (With 
an  angry  glance  at  Valentine.)  I  would  tear  my  heart 
out  and  throw  it  away  if  I  could.  My  answer  to  you  is 
my  mother's  answer.  (She  goes  to  Mrs.  Clandon,  and 
stands  with  her  arm  about  her;  but  Mrs.  Clandon,  unable 


Act  III  You  Never  Can  Tell  311 

to  endure  this  sort  of  demonstrativeness,  disengages 
herself  as  soon  as  she  can  without  hurting  Gloria's 
feelings.) 

McCoMAs  {defeated).  Well,  I  am  very  sorry — very 
sorry.  I  have  done  my  best.  {He  rises  and  prepares 
to  go,  deeply  dissatisfied.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  But  what  did  you  expect.  Finch? 
What  do  you  want  us  to  do? 

McCoMAS.  The  first  step  for  both  you  and  Cramp- 
ton  is  to  obtain  counsel's  opinion  as  to  whether  he  is 
bound  by  the  deed  of  separation  or  not.  Now  why  not 
obtain  this  opinion  at  once,  and  have  a  friendly  meeting 
(her  face  hardens) — or  shall  we  say  a  neutral  meeting? 
— to  settle  the  difficulty — here — in  this  hotel — to-night? 
What  do  you  say? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  But  where  is  the  coimsel's  opinion 
to  come  from? 

McCoMAS.  It  has  dropped  down  on  us  out  of  the 
clouds.  On  my  way  back  here  from  Crampton's  I  met 
a  most  eminent  Q.C.,  a  man  whom  I  briefed  in  the  case 
that  made  his  name  for  him.  He  has  come  down  here 
from  Saturday  to  Monday  for  the  sea  air,  and  to  visit 
a  relative  of  his  who  lives  here.  He  has  been  good 
enough  to  say  that  if  I  can  arrange  a  meeting  of  the 
parties  he  will  come  and  help  us  with  his  opinion.  Now 
do  let  us  seize  this  chance  of  a  quiet  friendly  family 
adjustment.  Let  me  bring  my  friend  here  and  try  to 
persuade  Crampton  to  come,  too.     Come:  consent. 

Mrs.  Clandon  {rather  ominously,  after  a  moment's 
consideration).  Finch:  I  don't  want  counsel's  opinion, 
because  I  intend  to  be  guided  by  my  own  ojDinion.  I 
don't  want  to  meet  Fergus  again,  because  I  don't  like 
him,  and  don't  believe  the  meeting  will  do  any  good. 
However  {rising),  you  have  persuaded  the  children  that 
he  is  not  quite  hopeless.     Do  as  you  please. 

McCoMAs  {taking  her  hand  and  shaking  it).  Thank 
you^  Mrs.  Clandon.     Will  nine  o'clock  suit  you? 


312  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  III 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Perfectly.  Phil:  will  you  ring, 
please.  {Phil  rings  the  bell.)  But  if  I  am  to  be  ac- 
cused of  consj^iring  with  Mr.  Valentine,  I  think  he  had 
better  be  present. 

Valentine  {rising).  I  quite  agree  with  you.  I 
think  it's  most  important, 

McCoMAS.  There  can  be  no  objection  to  that,  I  think. 
I  have  the  greatest  hopes  of  a  happy  settlement.  Good- 
bye for  the  present.  {He  goes  out,  meeting  the  waiter; 
who  holds  the  door  for  him  to  pass  through.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  We  expect  some  visitors  at  nine, 
William.  Can  we  have  dinner  at  seven  instead  of  half- 
past  } 

Waiter  {at  the  door).  Seven,  ma'am .^  Certainly, 
ma'am.  It  will  be  a  convenience  to  us  this  busy  evening, 
ma'am.  There  will  be  the  band  and  the  arranging  of  the 
fairy  lights  and  one  thing  or  another,  ma'am. 

Dolly.     The  fairy  lights  ! 

Philip.     The  band !     William:  what  mean  you? 

Waiter.      The  fancy  ball,  miss 

Dolly  and  Philip  {simultaneously  rushing  to  him). 
Fancy  ball ! 

Waiter.  Oh,  yes,  sir.  Given  by  the  regatta  com- 
mittee for  the  benefit  of  the  Life-boat,  sir.  {To  Mrs. 
Clandon.)  We  often  have  them,  ma'am:  Chinese  lan- 
terns in  the  garden,  ma'am:  very  bright  and  pleasant, 
very  gay  and  innocent  indeed.  {To  Phil.)  Tickets 
downstairs  at  the  office,  sir,  five  shillings:  ladies  half 
price  if  accompanied  by  a  gentleman. 

Philip  {seizing  his  arm  to  drag  him  off).  To  the 
office,  William ! 

Dolly  {breathlessly,  seizing  his  other  arm).  Quick, 
before  they're  all  sold.  {They  rush  him  out  of  the  room 
between  them.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  What  on  earth  are  they  going  to  do? 
{Going  out.)  I  really  must  go  and  stop  this —  {She 
follows  them,  speaking  as  she  disappears.     Gloria  stares 


Act  III  You  Never  Can  Tell  313 

coolly  at  Valentine,  and  then  deliberately  looks  at  her 
watch.) 

Valentine.  I  understand.  I've  stayed  too  long. 
I'm  going. 

Gloria  (with  disdainful  'punctiliousness) .  I  owe  you 
some  apology^  Mr.  Valentine.  I  am  conscious  of  having 
spoken  somewhat  sharply — perhaps  rudely — to  you. 

Valentine.     Not  at  all. 

Gloria.  My  only  excuse  is  that  it  is  very  difficult  to 
give  consideration  and  respect  when  there  is  no  dignity 
of  character  on  the  other  side  to  command  it, 

Valentine  {prosaically).  How  is  a  man  to  look 
dignified  when  he's  infatuated? 

Gloria  (effectually  unstilted).  Don't  say  those 
things  to  me.     I  forbid  you.     They  are  insults. 

Valentine.  No:  they're  only  follies.  I  can't  help 
them. 

Gloria.  If  you  were  really  in  love,  it  would  not 
make  you  foolish:  it  would  give  you  dignity — earnest- 
ness— even  beauty. 

Valentine.  Do  you  really  think  it  would  make  me 
beautiful.''  (She  turns  her  hack  on  him  with  the  coldest 
contempt.)  Ah,  you  see  you're  not  in  earnest.  Love 
can't  give  any  man  new  gifts.  It  can  only  heighten  the 
gifts  he  was  born  with. 

Gloria  (^sweeping  round  at  him  again).  What  gifts 
were  you  born  with,  pray.'' 

Valentine.     Lightness  of  heart. 

Gloria.  And  lightness  of  head,  and  lightness  of 
faith,  and  lightness  of  everything  that  makes  a  man. 

Valentine.  Yes,  the  whole  world  is  like  a  feather 
dancing  in  the  light  now;  and  Gloria  is  the  sun.  (^She 
rears  her  head  angrily.)  I  beg  your  pardon:  I'm  off. 
Back  at  nine.  Good-bye.  (He  runs  off  gaily,  leaving 
her  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  staring  after 
him.) 

END    OF    ACT    III. 


ACT    IV 

The  same  room.  Nine  o'clock.  Nobody  present.  The 
lamps  are  lighted;  but  the  curtains  are  not  drawn.  The 
rvindow  stands  ivide  open;  and  strings  of  Chinese  lan- 
terns are  glowing  among  the  trees  outside,  with  the 
starry  shy  beyond.  The  band  is  playing  dance-music 
in  the  garden,  drowning  the  sound  of  the  sea. 

The  waiter  enters,  shewing  in  Crampton  and  Mc- 
Comas.  Crampton  looks  cowed  and  anxious.  He  sits 
down  wearily  and  timidly  on  the  ottoman. 

Waiter.  The  ladies  have  gone  for  a  turn  through  the 
grounds  to  see  the  fancy  dresses,  sir.  If  you  will  be 
so  good  as  to  take  seats,  gentlemen,  I  shall  tell  them. 
{He  is  about  to  go  into  the  garden  through  the  win- 
dow when  McComas  stops  him.) 

]\IcCoMAS.  One  moment.  If  another  gentleman 
comes,  shew  him  in  without  any  delay:  we  are  expecting 
him. 

Waiter.     Right,  sir.     What  name,  sir? 

McCoMAS.  Boon.  Mr,  Boon.  He  is  a  stranger  to 
Mrs.  Clandon;  so  he  may  give  you  a  card.  If  so,  the 
name  is  spelt  B.O.H.U.N.     You  will  not  forget. 

Waiter  (smiling).  You  may  depend  on  me  for  that, 
sir.  My  own  name  is  Boon,  sir,  though  I  am  best  known 
down  here  as  Balmy  Walters,  sir.  By  rights  I  should 
spell  it  with  the  aitch  you,  sir;  but  I  think  it  best  not 
to  take  that  liberty,  sir.  There  is  Norman  blood  in  it, 
sir;  and  Norman  blood  is  not  a  recommendation  to  a 
waiter. 

314 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  315 

McCoMAS.  Well,  well:  "  True  hearts  are  more  than 
coronets,  and  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood," 

Waiter.  That  depends  a  good  deal  on  one's  station 
in  life,  sir.  If  j^ou  were  a  waiter,  sir,  you'd  find  that 
simple  faith  would  leave  you  just  as  short  as  Norman 
blood.  I  find  it  best  to  spell  myself  B.  double-O.N., 
and  to  keep  my  wits  pretty  sharp  about  me.  But  I'm 
taking  up  your  time,  sir.  You'll  excuse  me,  sir:  your 
own  fault  for  being  so  affable,  sir.  I'll  tell  the  ladies 
you're  here,  sir.  {He  goes  out  into  the  garden  through 
the  window.^ 

McCoMAS.      Crampton:  I  can  depend  on  you,  can't  I? 

Crampton.  Yes,  yes.  I'll  be  quiet.  I'll  be  patient. 
I'll  do  my  best. 

McComas.  Remember:  I've  not  given  you  away. 
I've  told  them  it  was  all  their  fault. 

Crampton.     You  told  me  that  it  was  all  my  fault. 

McCoMAS.     I  told  you  the  truth. 

Crampton  (plaintively).  If  they  will  only  be  fair 
to  me ! 

McCoMAS.  My  dear  Crampton,  they  won't  be  fair 
to  you:  it's  not  to  be  expected  from  them  at  their  age. 
If  you're  going  to  make  impossible  conditions  of  this 
kind,  we  may  as  well  go  back  home  at  once. 

Crampton.     But  surely  I  have  a  right 

McCoMAs  (intolerantly).  You  won't  get  your  rights. 
Now,  once  for  all,  Crampton,  did  your  promises  of  good 
behavior  only  mean  that  you  won't  complain  if  there's 
nothing  to  complain  of.''  Because,  if  so —  (He  moves 
as  if  to  go.) 

Crampton  (miserably).  No,  no:  let  me  alone,  can't 
you.''  I've  been  bullied  enough:  I've  been  tormented 
enough.  I  tell  you  I'll  do  my  best.  But  if  that  girl 
begins  to  talk  to  me  like  that  and  to  look  at  me  like — 
(He  breaks  off  and  buries  his  head  in  Jiis  hands.) 

McCoMAs  (relenting).  There,  there:  it'll  be  all 
right,  if  you  will  only  bear  and  forbear.      Come,  pull 


316  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IV 

yourself  together:  tliere's  someone  coming.  (Crampton, 
too  dejected  to  care  much,  hardly  changes  his  attitude. 
Gloria  enters  from  the  garden;  McComas  goes  to  meet 
her  at  the  window;  so  that  he  can  speak  to  her  without 
being  heard  by  Crampton.)  There  he  is,  Miss  Clandon. 
Be  kind  to  him.  I'll  leave  you  with  him  for  a  moment. 
(//e  goes  into  the  garden.  Gloria  comes  in  and  strolls 
coolly  down  the  middle  of  the  room.) 

Crampton  {looking  round  in  alarm).  Where's  Mc- 
Comas ? 

Gloria  (listlessly,  but  not  unsympathetically) .  Gone 
out — to  leave  us  together.  Delicacy  on  his  part,  I  sup- 
pose. (She  stops  beside  him  and  looks  quaintly  down  at 
him.)     Well,  father? 

Crampton  (a  quaint  jocosity  breaking  through  his 
forlornness).  Well,  daughter.''  {They  look  at  one  an- 
other  for  a  moment,  with  a  melancholy  sense  of  humor.) 

Gloria.      Shake  hands.      {They  shake  hands.) 

Crampton  {holding  her  hand).  My  dear:  I'm  afraid 
I  spoke  very  improj^erly  of  your  mother  this  afternoon. 

Gloria.  Oh,  don't  apologize.  I  was  very  high  and 
mighty  myself;  but  I've  come  down  since:  oh,  yes:  I've 
been  brought  down.  {She  sits  down  on  the  floor  beside 
his  chair.) 

Crampton.     What  has  happened  to  you,  my  child.'' 

Gloria.  Oh,  never  mind.  I  was  playing  the  part  of 
my  mother's  daughter  then;  but  I'm  not:  I'm  my  father's 
daughter.  {Looking  at  him  funnily.)  That's  a  come 
down,  isn't  it.'' 

Crampton  {angry).  What!  {Her  odd  expression 
does  not  alter.  He  surrenders.)  Well,  yes,  my  dear:  I 
suppose  it  is,  I  suppose  it  is.  {She  nods  sympatheti- 
cally.) I'm  afraid  I'm  sometimes  a  little  irritable;  but 
I  know  what's  right  and  reasonable  all  the  time,  even 
when  I  don't  act  on  it.     Can  you  believe  that.f" 

Gloria.  Believe  it!  Why,  that's  myself — myself  all 
over.     /  know  what's  right  and  dignified  and  strong  and 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  317 

noble,  just  as  well  as  she  does;  but  oil,  the  things  I  do! 
the  things  I  do !  the  things  I  let  other  people  do ! ! 

Crampton  (a  little  grudgingly  in  spite  of  himself). 
As  well  as  she  does?     You  mean  your  mother? 

Gloria  (quickly).  Yes,  mother.  (She  turns  to  him 
on  her  knees  and  seizes  his  hands.)  Now  listen.  No 
treason  to  her:  no  word,  no  thought  against  her.  She  is 
our  superior — yours  and  mine — high  heavens  above  us. 
Is  that  agreed? 

Crampton.     Yes,  yes.     Just  as  you  please,  my  dear. 

Gloria  (not  satisfied,  letting  go  his  hands  and  draw- 
ing back  from  him).      You  don't  like  her? 

Crampton.  My  child:  you  haven't  been  married  to 
her.  I  have.  (She  raises  herself  slowly  to  her  feet, 
looking  at  him  with  growing  coldness.)  She  did  me  a 
great  wrong  in  marrying  me  without  really  caring  for 
me.  But  after  that,  the  wrong  was  all  on  my  side,  I 
dare  say.      (He  offers  her  his  hand  again.) 

Gloria  (taking  it  firmly  and  warningly).  Take  care. 
That's  my  dangerous  subject.  My  feelings — my  miser- 
able, cowardly,  womanly  feelings — may  be  on  your  side; 
but  my  conscience  is  on  hers. 

Crampton.  I'm  very  well  content  with  that  division, 
my  dear.  Thank  you.  (Valentine  arrives.  Gloria  im- 
mediately becomes  deliberately  haughty.) 

Valentine.  Excuse  me;  but  it's  impossible  to  find  a 
servant  to  announce  one:  even  the  never  failing  William 
seems  to  be  at  the  ball.  I  should  have  gone  myself ;  only 
I  haven't  five  shillings  to  buy  a  ticket.  How  are  you  get- 
ting on,  Crampton?     Better,  eh? 

Crampton.  I  am  myself  again,  Mr.  Valentine,  no 
thanks  to  you. 

Valentine.  Look  at  this  ungrateful  parent  of  yours. 
Miss  Clandon !  I  saved  him  from  an  excruciating  pang; 
and  he  reviles  me ! 

Gloria  (coldly).  I  am  sorry  my  mother  is  not  here 
to   receive   you,   Mr.    Valentine.      It   is   not   quite   nine 


318  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IV 

o'clock;  and  the  gentleman  of  whom  Mr.  McComas 
spoke,  the  lawyer,  is  not  yet  come. 

Valentine.  Oh,  yes,  he  is.  I've  met  him  and  talked 
to  him.  {TVith  gay  malice.)  You'll  like  him.  Miss  Clan- 
don:  lie's  the  very  incarnation  of  intellect.  You  can 
hear  his   mind  working. 

Gloria  {ignoring  the  jibe).     Where  is  he? 

Valentine.  Bought  a  false  nose  and  gone  into  the 
fancy  ball. 

Crampton  (^crustily,  looking  at  his  watch).  It  seems 
that  everybody  has  gone  to  this  fancy  ball  instead  of 
keeping  to  our  appointment  here. 

Valentine.  Oh,  he'll  come  all  right  enough:  that 
was  half  an  hour  ago.  I  didn't  like  to  borrow  five 
shillings  from  him  and  go  in  with  him;  so  I  joined  the 
mob  and  looked  through  the  railings  until  Miss  Clan- 
don  disappeared  into  the  hotel  through  the  window. 

Gloria.  So  it  has  come  to  this,  that  you  follow  me 
about  in  public  to  stare  at  me. 

Valentine.     Yes :  somebody  ought  to  chain  me  up. 

Gloria  turns  her  back  on  him  and  goes  to  the  fireplace. 
He  takes  the  snub  very  'philosophically ,  and  goes  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room.  The  waiter  appears  at  the 
window,  ushering  in  Mrs.  Clandon  and  McComas. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (^hurrying  in).  I  am  so  sorry  to  have 
kept  you  all  waiting. 

A  grotesquely  majestic  stranger,  in  a  domino  and  false 
nose,  with  goggles,  appears  at  the  window. 

Waiter  {to  the  stranger).  Beg  pardon,  sir;  but  this 
is  a  private  apartment,  sir.  If  you  will  allow  me,  sir, 
I  will  shew  you  the  American  bar  and  supper  rooms, 
sir.     This  way,  sir. 

He  goes  into  the  garden,  leading  the  way  under  the 
impression  that  the  stranger  is  following  him.  The 
majestic  one,  however,  comes  straight  into  the  room  to 
the  end  of  the  table,  where,  with  impressive  deliberation, 
he  takes  off  the  false  nose  and  then  the  domino,  rolling 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  319 

up  the  nose  in  the  domino  and  throwing  the  bundle  on 
the  table  like  a  champion  throwing  down  his  glove.  He 
is  now  seen  to  be  a  stout,  tall  man  between  forty  and 
fifty,  clean  shaven,  with  a  midnight  oil  pallor  emphasised 
by  stiff  black  hair,  cropped  short  and  oiled,  and  eye- 
brows like  early  Victorian  horsehair  upholstery.  Phys- 
ically and  spiritually,  a  coarsened  man:  in  cunning  and 
logic,  a  ruthlessly  sharpened  one.  His  bearing  as  he 
enters  is  sufficiently  imposing  and  disquieting;  but  when 
he  speaks,  his  powerful,  menacing  voice,  impressively 
articulated  speech,  strong  inexorable  manner,  and  a  ter- 
rifying power  of  intensely  critical  listening  raise  the 
impression  produced  by  him  to  absolute  tremendousness. 

The  Stranger.  My  name  is  Bohun.  (General 
awe.)  Have  I  the  honor  of  addressing  Mrs.  Clandon? 
(Mrs.  Clandon  bows.  Bohun  bows.)  Miss  Clandon? 
(Gloria  bows.     Bohun  bows.)      Mr,  Clandon? 

Crampton  (insisting  on  his  rightful  name  as  angrily 
as  he  dares).     My  name  is  Crampton,  sir. 

Bohun.  Oh,  indeed.  (Passing  him  over  without  fur- 
ther notice  and  turning  to  Valentine.)  Are  you  Mr. 
Clandon  ? 

Valentine  (making  it  a  point  of  honor  not  to  be  im- 
pressed by  him).  Do  I  look  like  it?  My  name  is  Val- 
entine.    I  did  the  drugging. 

Bohun.  Ah,  quite  so.  Then  Mr.  Clandon  has  not 
yet  arrived? 

Waiter  (entering  anxiously  through  the  window). 
Beg  pardon,  ma'am ;  but  can  you  tell  me  what  became  of 
that —  (He  recognizes  Bohun,  and  loses  all  his  self- 
possession.  Bohun  waits  rigidly  for  him  to  pidl  himself 
together.  After  a  pathetic  exhibition  of  confusion,  he 
recovers  himself  sufficiently  to  address  Bohun  weakly 
but  coherently.)  Beg  pardon,  sir,  I'm  sure,  sir.  Was — 
was  it  you,  sir? 

Bohun  (ruthlessly).     It  was  I. 

Waiter   (brokenly).     Yes,   sir.      (Unable  to  restrain 


320  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  rv 

his  tears.)  You  in  a  false  nose,  Walter !  (He  sinks 
faintly  into  a  chair  at  the  table.)  I  beg  your  pardon, 
ma'am,  I'm  sure.     A  little  giddiness 

BoHUN  (commandingly).  You  will  excuse  him,  Mrs. 
Clandon,  wlien  I  inform  you  that  he  is  my  father. 

Waiter  (Jiearthrohen).  Oh,  no,  no,  Walter.  A 
waiter  for  your  father  on  the  top  of  a  false  nose !  What 
will  they  think  of  you? 

Mrs.  Clandon  (going  to  the  waiter's  chair  in  her 
hindest  manner).  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Bohun. 
Your  father  has  been  an  excellent  friend  to  us  since  we 
came  here.     (Bohun  bows  gravely.) 

Waiter  (shaking  his  head).  Oh,  no,  ma'am.  It's 
very  kind  of  you — very  ladylike  and  affable  indeed, 
ma'am;  but  I  should  feel  at  a  great  disadvantage  off  my 
own  proper  footing.  Never  mind  my  being  the  gentle- 
man's father,  ma'am :  it  is  only  the  accident  of  birth  after 
all,  ma'am.  (He  gets  up  feebly.)  You'll  excuse  me, 
I'm  sure,  having  interrupted  your  business.  (He  begins 
to  make  his  way  along  the  table,  supporting  himself 
from  chair  to  chair,  with  his  eye  on  the  door.) 

Bohun.  One  moment.  (The  waiter  stops,  with  a 
sinking  heart.)  My  father  was  a  witness  of  what  passed 
to-day,  was  he  not,  Mrs.  Clandon  ? 

Mrs.  Clandon.     Yes,  most  of  it,  I  think. 

Bohun.      In  that  case  we  shall  want  him. 

Waiter  (pleading).  I  hope  it  may  not  be  necessary, 
sir.  Busy  evening  for  me,  sir,  with  that  ball:  very  busy 
evening  indeed,  sir. 

Bohun  (inexorably).     We  shall  want  you. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (politely).     Sit  down,  Avon't  you? 

Waiter  (earnestly).  Oh,  if  you  please,  ma'am,  I 
really  must  draw  the  line  at  sitting  down.  I  couldn't 
let  myself  be  seen  doing  such  a  thing,  ma'am :  thank  you, 
I  am  sure,  all  the  same.  (He  looks  round  from  face  to 
face  wretchedly,  with  an  expression  that  would  melt  a 
heart  of  stone.) 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  321 

Gloria.  Don't  let  us  waste  time.  William  only 
wants  to  go  on  taking  care  of  us.  I  should  like  a  cup 
of  coffee. 

Waiter  {brightening  perceptibly).  Coffee,  miss? 
(He  gives  a  little  gasp  of  hope.)  Certainly,  miss. 
Thank  you,  miss :  very  timely,  miss,  very  thoughtful  and 
considerate  indeed.  (To  Mrs.  Clandon,  timidly  hut  ex- 
pectantly.)    Anything  for  you,  ma'am? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Er — oh,  yes:  it's  so  hot,  I  think  we 
might  have  a  jug  of  claret  cup. 

Waiter  (beaming).  Claret  cup,  ma'am!  Certainly, 
ma'am. 

Gloria.  Oh,  well,  I'll  have  claret  cup  instead  of  cof- 
fee.    Put  some  cucumber  in  it. 

Waiter  (delighted).  Cucumber,  miss!  yes,  miss. 
(To  Bohun.)  Anything  special  for  you,  sir.f*  You  don't 
like  cucumber,  sir. 

Bohun.  If  Mrs.  Clandon  will  allow  me — syphon — 
Scotch. 

Waiter.  Right,  sir.  (To  Crampton.)  Irish  for 
you,  sir,  I  think,  sir.''  (Crampton  assents  with  a  grunt. 
The  waiter  looks  enquiringly  at  Valentine.) 

Valentine.      I  like  the  cucumber. 

Waiter.  Right,  sir.  (Summing  up.)  Claret  cup, 
syphon,  one  Scotch  and  one  Irish? 

Mrs.  Clandon.      I  think  that's  right. 

Waiter  (perfectly  happy).  Right,  ma'am.  Directly, 
ma'am.  Thank  you.  (He  ambles  off  through  the  window, 
having  sounded  the  whole  gamut  of  human  happiness, 
from  the  bottom  to  the  top,  in  a  little  over  two  minutes.) 

McComas.     We  can  begin  now,  I  suppose? 

Bohun.  We  had  better  wait  until  ]\Irs.  Clandon's 
husband  arrives. 

Crampton.     What  d'y'  mean?     I'm  her  husband. 

Bohun  (instantly  pouncing  on  the  inconsistency  be- 
tween this  and  his  previous  statement).  You  said  just 
now  that  your  name  was  Crampton. 


322  You  Never  Can  TeU  Act  IV 

Crampton.     So  it  is. 


Mrs.  Clandon  "i 
Gloria 
McCoMAs 
Valentine 


(all  four 
speaking 
simul- 
taneously). 


I 

My- 
Mrs.- 
You- 


BoHUN  {drowning  them  in  two  thunderous  words). 
One  moment.  {Dead  silence.)  Pray  allow  me.  Sit 
down  everybody.  {They  obey  humbly.  Gloria  takes 
the  saddle-bag  chair  on  the  hearth.  Valentine  slips 
around  to  her  side  of  the  room  and  sits  on  the  ottoman 
facing  the  window,  so  that  he  can  looJc  at  her.  Cramp- 
ton  sits  on  the  ottoman  with  his  back  to  Valentine's. 
Mrs.  Clandon,  who  has  all  along  kept  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room  in  order  to  avoid  Crampton  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, sits  near  the  door,  with  McComas  beside  her  on 
her  left.  Bohun  places  himself  magisterially  in  the 
centre  of  the  group,  near  the  corner  of  the  table  on  Mrs. 
Clandon's  side.  When  they  are  settled,  he  fixes  Cramp- 
ion  with  his  eye,  and  begins.)  In  this  family,  it  ap- 
pears, the  husband's  name  is  Crampton :  the  wife's  Clan- 
don. Thus  we  have  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  case 
an  element  of  confusion. 

Valentine  {getting  up  and  speaking  across  to  him 
with  one  knee  on  the  ottoman).  But  it's  perfectly 
simple. 

BoHUN  {annihilating  him  with  a  vocal  thunderbolt). 
It  is.  Mrs.  Clandon  has  adopted  another  name.  That 
is  the  obvious  explanation  which  you  feared  I  could  not 
find  out  for  myself.  You  mistrust  my  intelligence,  Mr. 
Valentine —  {Stopping  him  as  he  is  about  to  protest.) 
No:  I  don't  want  you  to  answer  that:  I  want  you  to 
think  over  it  when  you  feel  your  next  impulse  to  inter-v 
rupt  me. 

Valentine  {dazed).  This  is  simply  breaking  a  but- 
terfly on  a  wheel.  What  does  it  matter.?  {He  sits  down 
again.) 

BoHUN.     I  will  tell  you  what  it  matters,  sir.     It  mat- 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  823 

ters  that  if  this  family  difference  is  to  be  smoothed  over 
as  we  all  hope  it  may  be,  Mrs.  Clandon,  as  a  matter  of 
social  convenience  and  decency,  will  have  to  resume  her 
husband's  name.  (Mrs.  Clandon  assumes  an  expression 
of  the  most  determined  obstinacy.^  Or  else  Mr.  Cramp- 
ton  will  have  to  call  himself  Mr.  Clandon.  (Crampton 
looks  indomitably  resolved  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort.) 
No  doubt  you  think  that  an  easy  matter,  ISIr.  Valentine. 
{He  looks  pointedly  at  Mrs.  Clandon,  then  at  Cramp- 
ton.)  I  differ  from  you.  (He  throws  himself  back  in 
his  chair,  frorvning  heavily.) 

McCoMAs  (timidly).  I  think,  Bohun,  we  had  per- 
haps better  dispose  of  the  important  questions  first. 

Bohun.  McComas:  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about 
the  important  questions.  There  never  is.  It  is  the  trifles 
that  will  wreck  you  at  the  harbor  mouth.  (McCornas 
looks  as  if  he  considered  this  a  paradox.)  You  don't 
agree  with  me,  eh? 

McCoMAS   (flatteringly).     If  I  did 

Bohun  (interrupting  him).  If  you  did,  you  would 
be  me,  instead  of  being  what  you  are. 

McCoMAS  (fawning  on  him).  Of  course,  Bohun, 
your  specialty 

Bohun  (again  interrupting  him).  My  specialty  is 
being  right  when  other  people  are  wrong.  If  you  agreed 
with  me  I  should  be  no  use  here.  (He  nods  at  him  to 
drive  the  point  home;  then  turns  suddenly  and  forcibly 
on  Crampton.)  Now  you,  Mr.  Crampton:  what  point  in 
this  business  have  you  most  at  heart.'' 

Crampton  (beginning  slowly).  I  wish  to  put  all 
considerations  of  self  aside  in  this  matter 

Bohun  (interrupting  him).  So  do  we  all,  Mr. 
Crampton.  (To  Mrs.  Clandon.)  You  wish  to  put  self 
aside,  ]\Irs.  Clandon? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Yes:  I  am  not  consulting  my  own 
feelings  in  being  here. 

Bohun.     So  do  you,  Miss  Clandon? 


324  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IV 

Gloria.     Yes. 

BoHUN.      I  thought  so.     We  all  do. 

Valentine.     Except  me.     My  aims  are  selfish. 

BoHUN.  That's  because  you  think  an  impression  of 
sincerity  will  produce  a  better  effect  on  Miss  Clandon 
than  an  impression  of  disinterestedness.  (Valentine, 
utterly  dismantled  and  destroyed  by  this  just  remark, 
takes  refuge  in  a  feeble,  speechless  smile.  Bohun,  sat- 
isfied at  having  now  effectually  crushed  all  rebellion, 
Ihrows  himself  back  in  his  chair,  with  an  air  of  being 
prepared  to  listen  tolerantly  to  their  grievances.^  Now, 
Mr.  Crampton,  go  on.  It's  understood  that  self  is  put 
tiside.     Human  nature  always  begins  by  saying  that. 

Crampton.      But  I  mean  it,  sir. 

Bohun.     Quite  so.     Now  for  your  point. 

Crampton.  Every  reasonable  person  will  admit  that 
it's  an  unselfish  one — the  children. 

Bohun.     Well?     What  about  the  children? 

Crampton   {n-ith  emotion).     They  have 

Bohun  {pouncing  forward  again).  Stop.  You're 
going  to  tell  nie  about  your  feelings,  Mr,  Crampton. 
Don't:  I  sympathize  with  them;  but  they're  not  my  busi- 
ness. Tell  us  exactly  what  you  want:  that's  what  we 
have  to  get  at. 

Crampton  (uneasily).  It's  a  very  difficult  question 
to  answer,  Mr.  Bohun. 

Bohun.  Come:  I'll  help  you  out.  What  do  you  ob- 
ject to  in  the  present  circumstances  of  the  children? 

Crampton.  I  object  to  the  way  they  have  been 
brought  up. 

Bohun.     How  do  you  propose  to  alter  that  now? 

Crampton.     I  think  they  ought  to  dress  more  quietl}'. 

Valentine.      Nonsense. 

Bohun  (instantly  flinging  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
outraged  by  the  interruption) .  When  you  are  done,  Mr. 
Valentine — when  you  are  quite  done. 

Valentine.   What's  wrong  with  Miss  Clandon's  dress  ? 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  325 

Crampton  (hotly  to  Valentine).  My  opinion  is  as 
good  as  yours. 

Gloria  {warningly).     Father! 

Crampton  {subsiding  piteously).  I  didn't  mean  you, 
my  dear.  {Pleading  earnestly  to  Bohun.)  But  the  two 
younger  ones !  you  have  not  seen  them,  Mr.  Bohun ;  and 
indeed  I  think  you  would  agree  with  me  that  there  is 
something  very  noticeable,  something  almost  gay  and 
frivolous  in  their  style  of  dressing. 

]Mrs.  Clandon  (impatiently).  Do  you  suppose  I 
choose  their  clothes  for  them?     Really  this  is  childish. 

Crampton  (furious,  rising).  Childish!  (Mrs.  Clan- 
don rises  indignantly.) 


McCoMAs 
Valentine 


(all  ris- 
ing and 
speaking 
together).^ 


Crampton,  you  promised- 


Ridiculous.  They  dress  charm- 
ingly. 

Gloria        j  together).]  Pray  let  us  behave  reasonably. 

Tumult.  Suddenly  they  hear  a  chime  of  glasses  in  the 
room  behind  them.  They  turn  in  silent  surprise  and  find 
that  the  waiter  has  just  come  back  from,  the  bar  in  the 
garden,  and  is  jingling  his  tray  rvarningly  as  he  comes 
softly  to  the  table  with  it. 

Waiter  (to  Crampton,  setting  a  tumbler  apart  on  the 
table).  Irish  for  you,  sir.  (Crampton  sits  down  a  little 
shamefacedly.  The  waiter  sets  another  tumbler  and  a 
syphon  apart,  saying  to  Bohun)  Scotch  and  syphon  for 
you,  sir.  (Bohun  waves  his  hand  impatiently.  The 
waiter  places  a  large  glass  jug  in  the  middle.)  And 
claret  cup.     (All  subside  into  their  seats.     Peace  reigns.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (humbly  to  Bohun).  I  am  afraid  we 
interrupted  you,  Mr.  Bohun. 

Bohun  (calmly).  You  did.  (To  the  waiter,  who  is 
going  out.)     Just  wait  a  bit. 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir.  Certainly,  sir.  (He  takes  his 
stand  behind  Bohun's  chair.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (to  the  waiter).  You  don't  mind  our 
detaining  you,  I  hope.     Mr.  Bohun  wishes  it. 


326  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IV 

Waiter  (now  quite  at  his  ease).  Oh,  no,  ma'am,  not  at 
all,  ma'am.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  watch  the  working 
of  his  trained  and  powerful  mind — very  stimulating, 
very  entertaining  and  instructive  indeed,  ma'am. 

BoHUN  (resuming  command  of  the  proceedings). 
Now,  Mr.  Crampton:  we  are  waiting  for  you.  Do  you 
give  up  your  objection  to  the  dressing,  or  do  you  stick 
to  it? 

Crampton  (pleading).  Mr.  Bohun:  consider  my 
position  for  a  moment.  I  haven't  got  myself  alone  to 
consider:  there's  my  sister  Sophronia  and  my  brother- 
in-law  and  all  their  circle.  They  have  a  great  horror  of 
anything  that  is  at  all — at  all — well 

Bohun.     Out  with  it.     Fast?     Loud?     Gay? 

Crampton.  Not  in  any  tmprincipled  sense  of  course; 
but — but —  (blurting  it  out  desperately)  those  two  chil- 
dren would  shock  them.  They're  not  fit  to  mix  with 
their  own  people.     That's  what  I  complain  of. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (with  suppressed  impatience).  Mr. 
Valentine:  do  you  think  there  is  anything  fast  or  loud 
about  Phil  and  Dolly? 

Valentine.  Certainly  not.  It's  utter  bosh.  Noth- 
ing can  be  in  better  taste. 

Crampton.     Oh,  yes:  of  course  you  say  so. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  William:  you  see  a  great  deal  of 
good  English  society.     Are  my  children  overdressed? 

Waiter  (reassuringly).  Oh,  dear,  no,  ma'am.  (Per- 
suasively.) Oh,  no,  sir,  not  at  all.  A  little  pretty  and 
tasty  no  doubt;  but  very  choice  and  classy — very  genteel 
and  high  toned  indeed.  IMight  be  the  son  and  daughter 
of  a  Dean,  sir,  I  assure  you,  sir.  You  have  only  to  look 
at  them,  sir,  to —  (At  this  moment  a  harlequin  and  colum- 
bine, dancing  to  the  music  of  the  band  in  the  garden, 
which  has  just  reached  the  coda  of  a  waltz,  whirl  one 
another  into  the  room.  The  harlequin's  dress  is  made  of 
lozenges,  an  inch  square,  of  turquoise  blue  silk  and  gold 
alternately.     His  hat  is  gilt  and  his  mask   turned  up. 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  827 

The  columbine's  petticoats  are  the  epitome  of  a  harvest 
field,  golden  orange  and  poppy  crimson,  with  a  tiny  velvet 
jacket  for  the  poppy  stamens.  They  pass,  an  exquisite 
and  dazzling  apparition,  hetrveen  McComas  and  Bohun, 
and  then  hack  in  a  circle  to  the  end  of  the  table,  rvhere, 
as  the  final  chord  of  the  waltz  is  struck,  they  make  a 
tableau  in  the  middle  of  the  company,  the  harlequin 
down  on  his  left  knee,  and  the  columbine  standing  on  his 
right  knee,  with  her  arms  curved  over  her  head.  Unlike 
their  dancing,  which  is  charmingly  gracefid,  their  atti- 
tudinising is  hardly  a  success,  and  threatens  to  end  in  a 
catastrophe.) 

The  Columbine  {screaming).  Lift  me  down,  some- 
body: I'm  going  to  fall.     Papa:  lift  me  down. 

Crampton  (anxiously  running  to  her  and  taking  her 
hands).     My  child! 

Dolly  {jumping  down  with  his  help).  Thanks:  so 
nice  of  you.  {Phil,  putting  his  hat  into  his  belt,  sits  on 
the  side  of  the  table  and  pours  out  some  claret  cup. 
Crampton  returns  to  his  place  on  the  ottoman  in  great 
perplexity.)  Oh,  what  fun!  Oh,  dear.  {She  seats  her- 
self with  a  vault  on  the  front  edge  of  the  table,  panting.) 
Oh,  claret  cup !     {She  drinks.) 

BoHUN  {in  powerful  tones).  This  is  the  younger 
lady,  is  it? 

Dolly  {slipping  down  off  the  table  in  alarm  at  his 
formidable  voice  and  manner).  Yes,  sir.  Please,  who 
are  you? 

Mrs.  Clandon.  This  is  Mr.  Bohun,  Dolly,  who  has 
very  kindly  come  to  help  us  this  evening. 

Dolly.  Oh,  then  he  comes  as  a  boon  and  a  bless- 
jjig- 


Philip.     Sh! 

Crampton.  Mr.  Bohun — McComas:  I  appeal  to  you. 
Is  this  right?  Would  you  blame  my  sister's  family  for 
objecting  to  this? 

Dolly  {flushing  ominously).    Have  you  begun  again? 


328  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IV 

Crampton  (propitiating  her).  No,  no.  It's  perhaps 
natural  at  your  age. 

Dolly  {obstinately).  Never  mind  my  age.  Is  it 
pretty .'' 

Crampton.  Yes,  dear,  yes.  {He  sits  dorvn  in  token 
of  s2ib77iission.) 

Dolly  {follorving  him  insistently).     Do  you  like  it? 

Crampton.  My  child:  how  can  you  expect  me  to  like 
it  or  to  approve  of  it? 

Dolly  {determined  not  to  let  him  off).  How  can  you 
think  it  pretty  and  not  like  it? 

McCoMAS  {rising,  angry  and  scandalised).  Really  I 
must  say —  {Bohun,  who  has  listened  to  Dolly  with  the 
highest  approval,  is  down  on  him  instantly.) 

Bohun.  No:  don't  interrupt,  McComas.  The  young 
lady's  method  is  right.  {To  Dolly,  with  tremendous  em- 
phasis.) Press  your  questions.  Miss  Clandon:  press 
your  questions. 

Dolly  {turning  to  Bohun).  Oh,  dear,  you  are  a 
regular  overwhelmer !     Do  you  always  go  on  like  this  ? 

Bohun  {rising).  Yes.  Don't  you  try  to  put  me  out 
of  countenance,  young  lady:  you're  too  young  to  do  it. 
{He  takes  McComas's  chair  from  beside  Mrs.  Clandon's, 
and  sets  it  beside  his  own.)  Sit  down.  {Dolly,  fasci- 
nated, obeys;  and  Bohun  sits  down  again.  McComas, 
robbed  of  his  seat,  takes  a  chair  on  the  other  side  be- 
tween the  table  and  the  ottoman.)  Now,  Mr.  Crampton, 
the  facts  are  before  you — both  of  them.  You  think 
you'd  like  to  have  your  two  youngest  children  to  live 
with  you.  Well,  you  wouldn't —  {Crampton  tries  to  pro- 
test; but  Bohun  will  not  have  it  on  any  terms.)  No,  you 
wouldn't:  you  think  you  would;  but  I  know  better  than 
you.  You'd  want  this  young  lady  here  to  give  up  dress- 
ing like  a  stage  columbine  in  the  evening  and  like  a 
fashionable  columbine  in  the  morning.  Well,  she  won't 
■ — never.     She  thinks  she  will;  but 

Dolly    {interrupting    him).      No    I    don't.       {Reso- 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  329 

lutely.)  I'll  never  give  up  dressing  prettily.  Never. 
As  Gloria  said  to  that  man  in  Madeira,  never,  never, 
never  while  grass  grows  or  water  runs. 

Valentine  (rising  in  the  wildest  agitation).  What! 
What!  (Beginning  to  speak  very  fast.)  When  did  she 
say  that?     Who  did  she  say  that  to? 

BoHUN  (throwing  himself  hack  with  massive,  pitying 
remonstrance).     Mr.   Valentine 

Valentine  (pepperily).  Don't  you  interrupt  me, 
sir:  this  is  something  really  serious.  I  insist  on  know- 
ing who  Miss  Clandon  said  that  to. 

Dolly.  Perhaps  Phil  remembers.  Which  was  it, 
Phil?  number  three  or  number  five? 

Valentine.     Number  five!!! 

Philip.  Courage,  Valentine.  It  wasn't  number  five: 
it  was  only  a  tame  naval  lieutenant  that  was  always  on 
hand — the  most  patient  and  harmless  of  mortals. 

Gloria  (coldly).     WTiat  are  we  discussing  now,  pray? 

Valentine  (very  red).  Excuse  me:  I  am  sorry  I 
interrupted.  I  shall  intrude  no  further,  Mrs.  Clandon. 
(He  hows  to  Mrs.  Clandon  and  marches  away  into  the 
garden,  boiling  with  suppressed  rage.) 

Dolly.     Hmhm ! 

Philip.     Ahah ! 

Gloria.     Please  go  on,  Mr.  Bohun. 

Dolly  (striking  in  as  Bohun,  frowning  formidably, 
collects  himself  for  a  fresh  grapple  with  the  case). 
You're  going  to  bully  us,  Mr.  Bohun. 

Bohun.     I 

Dolly  (interrupting  him).  Oh,  yes,  you  are:  you 
think  you're  not;  but  you  are.  I  know  by  your  eye- 
brows. 

Bohun  (capitulating).  Mrs.  Clandon:  these  are 
clever  children — clear  headed,  well  brought  up  children. 
I  make  that  admission  deliberately.  Can  you,  in  return, 
point  out  to  me  any  way  of  inducing  them  to  hold  their 
tongues  ? 


330  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IV 

Mrs.  Clandon.      Dolly,  dearest ! 

Philip.  Our  old  failing,  Dolly.  Silence!  (Dolly 
holds  her  mouth.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Now,  Mr.  Bohnn,  before  they  be- 
gin again 

Waiter  (softly).     Be  quick,  sir:  be  quick. 

Dolly  (beaming  at  him).     Dear  William! 

Philip.     Sh ! 

BoHUN  (unexpectedly  beginning  by  hurling  a  question 
straight  at  Dolly).  Have  you  any  intention  of  getting 
married .'' 

Dolly.  I !  Well,  Finch  calls  me  by  my  Christian 
name. 

McCoMAS.  I  will  not  have  this.  ]\Ir.  Bohun:  I  use 
the  young  lady's  Christian  name  naturally  as  an  old 
friend  of  her  mother's. 

Dolly.  Yes,  you  call  me  Dolly  as  an  old  friend  of 
my  mother's.  But  what  about  Dorothee-ee-a.''  (Mc- 
Comas  rises  indignantly.) 

Crampton  (anxiously,  rising  to  restrain  him).  Keep 
your  temper,  McComas.  Don't  let  us  quarrel.  Be  pa- 
tient. 

McCoMAS.  I  will  not  be  patient.  You  are  shewing 
the  most  wretched  weakness  of  character,  Crampton.  I 
say  this  is  monstrous. 

Dolly.      i\Ir.  Bohun:  please  bully  Finch  for  us. 

Bohun.  I  will.  McComas:  you're  making  yourself 
ridiculous.     Sit  down. 

McCoMAs.     I 

Bohun  (rvaving  him  down  imperiously).  No:  sit 
down,  sit  down.  (McComas  sits  down  sulkily;  and 
Crampton,  much  relieved,  follows  his  example.) 

Dolly  (to  Bohun,  meekly).     Thank  you. 

Bohun.  Now,  listen  to  me,  all  of  you.  I  give  no 
opinion,  McComas,  as  to  how  far  you  may  or  may  not 
have  committed  yourself  in  the  direction  indicated  by 
this  young  lady.     (McComas  is  about  to  protest.)     No: 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  331 

don't  interrupt  me :  if  she  doesn't  marry  you  she  will 
marry  somebody  else.  That  is  the  solution  of  the  diffi- 
culty as  to  her  not  bearing  her  father's  name.  The  other 
lady  intends  to  get  married. 

Gloria  (flushing).      Mr.  Bohun  ! 

BoHUN.  Oh,  yes,  you  do:  you  don't  know  it;  but  you 
do. 

Gloria  (rising).  Stop.  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Bohtm,  not 
to  answer  for  my  intentions. 

BoHUN  (rising).  It's  no  use.  Miss  Clandon:  you 
can't  put  me  down.  I  tell  you  your  name  will  soon  be 
neither  Clandon  nor  Crampton;  and  I  could  tell  you 
what  it  will  be  if  I  chose.  (He  goes  to  the  other  end  of 
the  table,  where  he  unrolls  his  domino,  and  puts  the  false 
nose  on  the  table.  When  he  moves  they  all  rise;  and 
Phil  goes  to  the  rvindow.  Bohun,  with  a  gesture,  sum- 
mons the  waiter  to  help  him  in  rohing.)  Mr.  Crampton: 
your  notion  of  going  to  law  is  all  nonsense:  your  children 
will  be  of  age  before  you  could  get  the  point  decided. 
(Allowing  the  waiter  to  put  the  domino  on  his  shoul- 
ders.) You  can  do  nothing  but  make  a  friendly  arrange- 
ment. If  you  want  your  family  more  than  they  want 
you,  you'll  get  the  worse  of  the  arrangement:  if  they 
want  you  more  than  you  want  them,  you'll  get  the  better 
of  it.  (He  shakes  the  domino  into  becoming  folds  and 
takes  up  the  false  nose.  Dolly  gazes  admiringly  at 
him.)  The  strength  of  their  position  lies  in  their  being 
very  agreeable  people  personally.  The  strength  of  your 
position  lies  in  your  income.  (He  claps  on  the  false 
nose,  and  is  again  grotesquely  transfigured.) 

Dolly  (running  to  him).  Oh,  now  you  look  quite 
like  a  human  being.  IMayn't  I  have  just  one  dance  with 
you?  Can  you  dance?  (Phil,  resuming  his  part  of 
harlequin,  waves  his  hat  as  if  casting  a  spell  on  them.) 

BoHUN  (thunderously).  Yes:  you  think  I  can't;  but 
I  can.  Come  along.  (He  seises  her  and  dances  off  with 
her  through   the   window   in   a   most   powerful   manner. 


332  You  Never  Can  TeU  Act  IV 

but  with  studied  propriety  and  grace.  The  waiter  is 
meanwhile  busy  putting  the  chairs  back  in  their  cus- 
tomary places.) 

Philip,  "  On  with  the  dance:  let  joy  be  unconfined." 
William ! 

Waiter.     Yes,  sir. 

Philip.  Can  you  procure  a  couple  of  dominos  and 
false  noses  for  my  father  and  Mr.  McComas? 

McCoMAS.     Most  certainly  not.     I  protest ■ 

Crampton.  No,  no.  What  harm  will  it  do,  just  for 
once,  McComas.''     Don't  let  us  be  spoil-sports. 

McCoMAs.  Crampton:  you  are  not  the  man  I  took 
you  for.  (Pointedly.)  Bullies  are  always  cowards. 
(He  goes  disgustedly  towards  the  window.) 

Crampton  (following  him).  Well,  never  mind.  We 
must  indulge  them  a  little.  Can  you  get  us  something 
to  wear,  waiter.^ 

Waiter.  Certainly,  sir.  (He  precedes  them  to  the 
window,  and  stands  aside  there  to'  let  them,  pass  out  be- 
fore him.)     This  way,  sir.     Dominos  and  noses,  sir? 

McCoMAs  (angrily,  on  his  way  out).  I  shall  wear  my 
own  nose. 

Waiter  (suavely).  Oh,  dear,  yes,  sir:  the  false  one 
will  fit  over  it  quite  easily,  sir:  plenty  of  room,  sir, 
plenty  of  room.     (He  goes  out  after  McComas.) 

Crampton  (turning  at  the  window  to  Phil  with  an 
attempt  at  genial  fatherliness).  Come  along,  my  boy, 
come  along.     (He  goes.) 

Philip  (cheerily,  following  him).  Coming,  dad, 
coming.  (On  the  window  threshold,  he  stops;  looks 
after  Crampton;  then  turns  fantastically  with  his  hat 
bent  into  a  halo  round  his  head,  and  says  with  lowered 
voice  to  Mrs.  Clandon  and  Gloria)  Did  you  feel  the 
pathos  of  that.^     (He  vanishes.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (left  alone  with  Gloria).  Why  did 
Mr.  Valentine  go  away  so  suddenly,  I  wonder? 

Gloria    (petulantly).      I    don't    know.      Yes,    I    do 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  333 

know.  Let  us  go  and  see  the  dancing.  {They  go  to- 
wards the  window,  and  are  met  by  Valentine,  who  comes 
in  from  the  garden  walking  quickly,  with  his  face  set 
and  sulky.) 

Valentine  (stiffly).  Excuse  me.  I  thought  the 
party  had  quite  broken  up. 

Gloria  (nagging).     Then  why  did  you  come  back? 

Valentine,  I  came  back  because  I  am  penniless.  I 
can't  get  out  that  way  without  a  five  shilling  ticket. 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Has  anything  annoyed  you,  Mr. 
Valentine  ? 

Gloria.  Never  mind  him,  mother.  This  is  a  fresh 
insult  to  me:  that  is  all. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (hardly  able  to  'realize  that  Gloria  is 
deliberately  provoking  an  altercation).     Gloria! 

Valentine.  Mrs,  Clandon:  have  I  said  anything  in- 
sulting,''    Have  I  done  anything  insulting? 

Gloria.  You  have  implied  that  my  past  has  been 
like  yours.     That  is  the  worst  of  insults. 

Valentine.  I  imply  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  declare 
that  my  past  has  been  blameless  in  comparison  with 
yours. 

Mrs.  Clandon    (most  indignantly).     Mr.   Valentine! 

Valentine.  Well,  what  am  I  to  think  when  I  learn 
that  Miss  Clandon  has  made  exactly  the  same  speeches  to 
other  men  that  she  has  made  to  me — when  I  hear  of  at 
least  five  former  lovers,  with  a  tame  naval  lieutenant 
thrown  in?     Oh,  it's  too  bad. 

Mrs,  Clandon.  But  you  surely  do  not  believe  that 
these  affairs — mere  jokes  of  the  children's — were  seri- 
ous, Mr.  Valentine? 

Valentine.  Not  to  you — not  to  her,  perhaps.  But 
I  know  what  the  men  felt.  (With  ludicrously  genuine 
earnestness.)  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  wrecked 
lives,  the  marriages  contracted  in  the  recklessness  of  de- 
spair, the  suicides,  the — the — the 

Gloria  (interrupting  him  contemptuously).     Mother: 


334  Tou  Never  Can  Tell  Act  iv 

this  man  is  a  sentimental  idiot.     {She  sweeps  away  to  the 
fireplace. ) 

Mrs.  Clandon  (shocked).  Oh,  my  dearest  Gloria, 
Mr.  Valentine  will  think  tlaat  rude. 

Valentine.  I  am  not  a  sentimental  idiot.  I  am 
cured  of  sentiment  for  ever.  (He  sits  down  in  duda- 
eon.) 

Mrs.  Clandon.  Mr.  Valentine:  you  must  excuse  us 
all.  Women  have  to  unlearn  the  false  good  manners  of 
their  slavery  before  they  acquire  the  genuine  good  man- 
ners of  their  freedom.  Don't  think  Gloria  vulgar 
(Gloria  turns,  astonished):  she  is  not  really  so. 

Gloria.  Mother!  You  apologize  for  me  to  him! 
Mrs.  Clandon.  My  dear:  you  have  some  of  the 
faults  of  youth  as  well  as  its  qualities;  and  Mr.  Valen- 
tine seems  rather  too  old  fashioned  in  his  ideas  about  liis 
own  sex  to  like  being  called  an  idiot.  And  now  had  we 
not  better  go  and  see  what  Dolly  is  doing  .^  (She  goes 
towards  the  window.     Valentine  rises.) 

Gloria.  Do  you  go,  mother.  I  wish  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Valentine  alone. 

Mrs.  Clandon  (startled  into  a  remonstrance).  My 
dear!  (Recollecting  herself.)  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Gloria.  Certainly,  if  you  wish.  (She  hows  to  Valentine 
and  goes  out.) 

Valentine.  Oh,  if  your  mother  were  only  a  widow! 
She's  worth  six  of  you. 

Gloria.  That  is  the  first  thing  I  have  heard  you  say 
that  does  you  honor. 

Valentine.  StuiF!  Come:  say  what  you  want  to 
say  and  let  me  go. 

Gloria.  I  have  only  this  to  say.  You  dragged  me 
down  to  your  level  for  a  moment  this  afternoon.  Do  you 
think,  if  that  had  ever  happened  before,  that  I  should 
not  have  been  on  my  guard — that  I  should  not  have 
known  what  was  coming,  and  known  my  own  miserable 
weakness  } 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  335 

Valentine  (scolding  at  her  passionately').  Don't 
talk  of  it  in  that  way.  What  do  I  care  for  anything  in 
you  but  your  weakness,  as  you  call  it?  You  thought 
yourself  very  safe,  didn't  you,  behind  your  advanced 
ideas!  I  amused  myself  by  upsetting  them  pretty 
easily. 

Gloria  (insolently ,  feeling  that  now  she  can  do  as  she 
likes  with  him).      Indeed! 

Valentine.  But  why  did  I  do  it?  Because  I  was 
being  tempted  to  awaken  your  heart — to  stir  the  depths 
in  you.  Why  was  I  tempted?  Because  Nature  was  in 
deadly  earnest  with  me  when  I  was  in  jest  witli  her. 
When  the  great  moment  came,  who  was  awakened?  who 
was  stirred?  in  whom  did  the  depths  break  up?  In  my- 
self— myself:  I  was  transported:  you  were  only  of- 
fended— shocked.  You  were  only  an  ordinary  young 
lady,  too  ordinarj^  to  allow  tame  lieutenants  to  go  as  far 
as  I  went.  That's  all.  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  con- 
ventional apologies.  Good-bye.  (He  makes  resolutely 
for  the  door.) 

Gloria.  Stop.  (He  hesitates.)  Oh,  will  you  under- 
stand, if  I  tell  you  the  truth,  that  I  am  not  making  an 
advance  to  you? 

Valentine.  Pooh !  I  know  what  you're  going  to 
say.  You  think  you're  not  ordinarj^ — that  I  was  right — 
that  you  really  have  those  depths  in  your  nature.  It  flat- 
ters you  to  believe  it.  (She  recoils.)  W^ell,  I  grant  that 
you  are  not  ordinary  in  some  ways:  you  are  a  clever  girl 
(Gloria  stifles  an  exclamation  of  rage,  and  takes  a 
threatening  step  towards  him)  ;  but  you've  not  been 
awakened  yet.  You  didn't  care:  you  don't  care.  It  was 
my  tragedy,  not  yours.  Good-bye.  (He  turns  to  the 
door.  She  watches  him,  appalled  to  see  him  slipping 
from  her  grasp.  As  he  turns  the  handle,  he  pauses; 
then  turns  again  to  her,  offering  his  hand.)  Let  us  part 
kindly. 

Gloria   (enormously  relieved,  and  immediately  turn- 


336  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IV 

ing  her  hack  on  him  deliberately.^  Good-bye.  I  trust 
you  will  soon  recover  from  the  wound. 

Valentine  {brightening  up  as  it  flashes  on  him  that 
he  is  master  of  the  situation  after  all).  I  shall  recover: 
such  wounds  heal  more  than  they  harm.  After  all,  I 
still  have  my  own  Gloria. 

Gloria  (facing  him  quickly).    What  do  you  mean? 

Valentine.     The  Gloria  of  my  imagination. 

Gloria  (proudly).  Keep  your  own  Gloria — the 
Gloria  of  your  imagination.  (Her  emotion  begins  to 
break  through  her  pride.)  The  real  Gloria — the  Gloria 
who  was  shocked,  offended,  horrified — oh,  yes,  quite 
truly — who  was  driven  almost  mad  with  shame  by  the 
feeling  that  all  her  power  over  herself  had  broken  down 
at  her  first  real  encounter  with — with —  (The  color 
rushes  over  her  face  again.  She  covers/  it  with  her  left 
hand,  and  puts  her  right  on  his  left  arm  to  support 
herself.) 

Valentine.  Take  care.  I'm  losing  my  senses  again. 
(Summoning  all  her  courage,  she  takes  away  her  hand 
from  her  face  and  puts  it  on  his  right  shoulder,  turn- 
ing him  towards  her  and  looking  him  straight  in  the 
eyes.  He  begins  to  protest  agitatedly.)  Gloria:  be 
sensible:  it's  no  use:  I  haven't  a  penny  in  the  world. 

Gloria.     Can't  you  earn  one?     Other  people  do. 

Valentine  (half  delighted,  half  frightened).  I 
never  could — you'd  be  unhappy —  My  dearest  love:  I 
should  be  the  merest  fortune-hunting  adventurer  if — 
(Her  grip  of  his  arms  tightens;  and  she  kisses  him.) 
Oh,  Lord!  (Breathless.)  Oh,  I —  (He  gasps.)  I 
don't  know  anything  about  women:  twelve  years'  ex- 
perience is  not  enough.  (J?i  a  gust  of  jealousy  she 
throws  him  away  from  her;  and  he  reels  back  into  the 
chair  like  a  leaf  before  the  wind,  as  Dolly  dances  in, 
waltzing  with  the  waiter,  followed  by  Mrs.  Clandon  and 
Finch,  also  waltzing,  and  Phil  pirouetting  by  himself.) 

Dolly    (sinking  on   the  chair  at   the   writing-table). 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  337 

Oh,  I'm  out  of  breath.  How  beautifully  you  waltz, 
William ! 

Mrs.  Clandon  (sinJiing  on  the  saddlebag  seat  on  the 
hearth).  Oh,  how  could  you  make  me  do  such  a  silly 
thing,  Finch !  I  haven't  danced  since  the  soiree  at  South 
Place  twenty  years  ago. 

Gloria  (peremptorily  at  Valentine).  Get  up.  {Val- 
entine gets  up  abjectly.)  Now  let  us  have  no  false  deli- 
cacy. Tell  my  mother  that  we  have  agreed  to  marry  one 
another.  (A  silence  of  stupefaction  ensues.  Valentine, 
dumb  rvith  panic,  looks  at  them  with  an  obvious  impulse 
to  run  away.) 

Dolly  (breaking  the  silence).     Number  Six! 

Philip.     Sh ! 

Dolly  (tumultuously).  Oh,  my  feelings!  I  want  to 
kiss  somebody;  and  we  bar  it  in  the  family.  Where's 
Finch  ? 

McCoMAS  (starting  violently).  No,  positively — • 
(Crampton  appears  at  the  nindorv.) 

Dolly  (running  to  Crampton).  Oh,  you're  just  in 
time.  (She  kisses  him.)  Now  (leading  him  forward) 
bless  them. 

Gloria.  No.  I  will  have  no  such  thing,  even  in  jest. 
When  I  need  a  blessing,  I  shall  ask  my  mother's. 

Crampton  (to  Gloria,  with  deep  disappointment). 
Am  I  to  understand  that  you  have  engaged  yourself  to 
this  young  gentleman? 

Gloria  (resolutely).  Yes.  Do  you  intend  to  be  our 
friend  or 

Dolly  (interposing).     — or  our  father? 

Crampton.  I  should  like  to  be  both,  my  child.  But 
surely — !  Mr.  Valentine:  I  appeal  to  your  sense  of 
honor. 

Valentine.  You're  quite  right.  It's  perfect  mad- 
ness. If  we  go  out  to  dance  together  I  shall  have  to 
borrow  five  shillings  from  her  for  a  ticket.  Gloria :  don't 
be  rash:  you're  throwing  yourself  away.     I'd  much  bet- 


338  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IV 

ter  clear  straight  out  of  this^  and  never  see  any  of  you 
again.  I  shan't  commit  suicide:  I  shan't  even  be  un- 
happy. It'll  be  a  relief  to  me:  I — I'm  frightened,  I'm 
positively  frightened;  and  that's  the  plain  truth. 

Gloria  {determinedly^ .     You  shall  not  go. 

Valentine  (quailing).  No,  dearest:  of  course  not. 
But — oh,  will  somebody  only  talk  sense  for  a  moment 
and  bring  us  all  to  reason !  /  can't.  Where's  Bohun  ? 
Bohun's  the  man.     Phil:  go  and  summon  Bohun 

Philip.  From  the  vasty  deep.  I  go.  (He  makes  his 
hat  quiver  in  the  air  and  darts  away  through  the  window.) 

Waiter  {harmoniously  to  Valentine).  If  you  vpill 
excuse  my  putting  in  a  word,  sir,  do  not  let  a  matter  of 
five  shillings  stand  betAveen  you  and  your  happiness,  sir. 
We  shall  be  only  too  pleased  to  put  the  ticket  down  to 
you:  and  you  can  settle  at  your  convenience.  Very  glad 
to  meet  you  in  any  way,  very  happy  and  pleased  indeed, 
sir. 

Philip  {re-appearing).  He  comes.  {He  waves  his 
bat  over  the  window.  Bohun  comes  in,  taking  off  his 
false  nose  and  throwing  it  on  the  table  in  passing  as  he 
comes  between  Gloria  and  Valentine.) 

Valentine.     The  point  is,  Mr.  Bohim 

McCoMAs  {interrupting  from  the  hearthrug).  Ex- 
cuse me,  sir:  the  point  must  be  put  to  him  by  a  solicitor. 
The  question  is  one  of  an  engagement  between  these  two 
young  people.  The  lady  has  some  property,  and  {look- 
ing at  Crampton)  will  probably  have  a  good  deal  more. 

Crampton.      Possibly.     I  hope  so. 

Valentine.     And  the  gentleman  hasn't  a  rap. 

Bohun  {nailing  Valentine  to  the  point  instantly). 
Then  insist  on  a  settlement.  That  shocks  your  delicacy: 
most  sensible  precautions  do.  But  you  ask  my  advice; 
and  I  give  it  to  you.     Have  a  settlement. 

Gloria   {proudly).     He  shall  have  a  settlement. 

Valentine.  ]\Iy  good  sir,  I  don't  want  advice  for 
myself.     Give  her  some  advice. 


Act  IV  You  Never  Can  Tell  339 

BoHUN.  She  won't  take  it.  When  you're  married, 
she  won't  take  yours  either — (turning  suddenly  on 
Gloria)  oh,  no,  you  won't:  you  think  you  will;  but  you 
won't.  He'll  set  to  work  and  earn  his  living — {turning 
suddenly  on  Valentine)  oh,  yes,  you  will:  you  think  you 
won't;  but  you  will.     She'll  make  you. 

Crampton  {only  half  persuaded).  Then,  Mr.  Bohim, 
you  don't  think  this  match  an  imwise  one  ? 

BoHUN.  Yes,  I  do:  all  matches  are  imwise.  It's  un- 
wise to  be  born ;  it's  unwise  to  be  married ;  it's  unwise  to 
live;  and  it's  wise  to  die. 

Waiter  {insinuating  himself  between  Crampton  and 
Valentine).  Then,  if  I  may  respectfully  put  a  word  in, 
sir,  so  much  the  worse  for  wisdom!  {To  Valentine,  be- 
nignly.) Cheer  up,  sir,  cheer  up:  every  man  is  fright- 
ened of  marriage  when  it  comes  to  the  point ;  but  it  often 
turns  out  very  comfortable,  very  enjoyable  and  happy 
indeed,  sir — from  time  to  time.  I  never  was  master  in 
my  own  house,  sir:  my  wife  was  like  your  young  lady: 
she  was  of  a  commanding  and  masterful  disposition, 
which  my  son  has  inherited.  But  if  I  had  my  life  to 
live  twice  over,  I'd  do  it  again,  I'd  do  it  again,  I  assure 
you.     You  never  can  tell,  sir:  you  never  can  tell. 

Philip.  Allow  me  to  remark  that  if  Gloria  has  made 
up  her  mind 

Dolly.  The  matter's  settled  and  Valentine's  done 
for.     And  we're  missing  all  the  dances. 

Valentine  {to  Gloria,  gallantly  making  the  best  of 
it).     May  I  have  a  dance 

BoHUN  {interposing  in  his  grandest  diapason).  Ex- 
cuse me:  I  claim  that  privilege  as  counsel's  fee.  May  I 
have  the  honor — thank  you.  {He  dances  arvay  with 
Gloria  and  disappears  among  the  lanterns,  leaving  Val- 
entine gasping.) 

Valentine  {recovering  his  breath).  Dolly:  may  I — 
(offering  himself  as  her  partner)  ? 

Dolly.     Nonsense!        {Eluding     him     and     running 


340  You  Never  Can  Tell  Act  IV 

round  the  table  to  the  fireplace.')  Finch — my  Finch! 
(iS/ie  pounces  on  McComas  and  makes  him  dance.) 

McCoMAS  {protesting).  Pray  restrain  —  really  — 
{He  is  borne  off  dancing  through  the  rvindow.) 

Valentine  {making  a  last  effort).  Mrs.  Clandon: 
may  I 

Philip  {forestalling  him).  Come,  mother.  {He 
seises  his  mother  and  whirls  her  away.) 

Mrs.  Clandon  {remonstrating).  Phil,  Phil — {She 
shares  McComas's  fate.) 

Crampton  {following  them  with  senile  glee).  Ho! 
ho !  He  !  he !  he !  {He  goes  into  the  garden  chuckling 
at  the  fun.) 

Valentine  {collapsing  on  the  ottoman  and  staring  at 
the  waiter).  I  might  as  well  be  a  married  man  already. 
{The  waiter  contemplates  the  captured  Duellist  of  Sex 
with  affectionate  commiseration^  shaking  his  head 
sloivly.) 

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